


cut out all the ropes and let me fall

by glimmerkeith



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cliches abound, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, if you are looking for angst, that felt incredible to use, this is not the fic for you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2018-12-25 04:39:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 60,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12028299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glimmerkeith/pseuds/glimmerkeith
Summary: Clearly, the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else—or at least, pretend like you have. Bookshop manager, cat owner, and cooking show-watcher extraordinaire John can try to win his ex back with a little old-fashioned jealousy, or as his friends predict, he can fail spectacularly. But in the process of dealing with weddings (not his own), battling family members, coping with colorful neighbors, and the ordinary spice of life, there may be more to his relationship with music teacher Paul (and his so-called rebound) than even he gambled on.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello and welcome to the romcom au that nobody asked for...but i wrote anyway. i wanted to write something silly but hopefully cute, and i hope that's the end result here. hopefully the next update shouldn't take too long!
> 
> a big thanks to everyone who encouraged me along the way to write this. the amount of support and enthusiasm i receive is astounding to me, and you guys really keep me going <3

_"Come on, skinny love, just last the year"_

— Bon Iver, ["Skinny Love"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ssdgFoHLwnk)

* * *

 

Somewhere out there in the world, there were people waking up to their partner’s touch or a peck on the cheek, or checking their phones with sleepy smiles only to find little good morning messages waiting for them. Hell, somewhere, there had to be _some_ people getting up to a good day.

John wasn’t one of them—unless you counted being jumped on by a hungry cat a banner way to start the morning. Claws extended, Pepper landed right on John’s side, and the half-asleep yet very pained sound John emitted in response, swiping out blindly at his pet, was punctured only by the shrill piercing ring of the alarm blaring from his phone.

“All right, all right, I _get_ it,” John groaned aloud, to nobody in particular, reaching out a hand to shut his alarm off—instead, his fumbling led to the phone clattering to the floor and sliding under the bed, just out of reach, and still blatting merrily away.

He swore again, slithering down so his torso hung off the bed to reach for his phone, taking Pepper with him. The cat yowled his displeasure, claws digging into him again, but John could only half-heartedly swat at him as he scrambled for his phone, finally plucking it up before too much of the blood rushed to his head. Turning the alarm off revealed to his still somewhat-blurry vision that he _did_ have messages waiting for him, albeit from two of his friends.

From Ringo, about a half hour earlier:

_call me when u get this!!_

And from George, slightly before that:

_do we need to have an intervention?? sat. night was rough. i can swing by the shop over lunch hour._

The idea of George heading over from the flower shop he ran in his work apron and soil-stained jeans, ready to give John another lecture on the merits of letting things go and allowing the universe to decide one’s fate, was a bit rich—and he sighed as he rumpled at his hair, figuring he’d deal with both of them when he was more awake. At the least, after he’d had some coffee.

He grabbed a quick shower, shoved his glasses on, and headed into the tiny kitchen, Pepper trotting along eagerly behind him and starting to mew hopefully. “Oh, all right…greedy bastard. Animals eat before people, huh?” But he scratched the white cat behind the ears when he gave him his breakfast, smiling just a tiny bit. His Aunt Mimi had always said no home was truly complete without a feline or two curled up in the windowsill or on the sofa cushions.

His last building hadn’t allowed pets. But it had still been a home of sorts, as long as Stuart was there. For nearly four months on now, he’d had a cat instead, but no Stu. A trade-off, of sorts. Maybe.

And here he was, thinking of Stu again. George was right, last Saturday had been rough…but as he’d explained to him then, it would have been their third anniversary together had they made it. The timing was horribly perfect.

He was allowed to be upset on his would-have-been-anniversary. Even George, for all of his bizarre relationships (and especially with his own most prominent ex) could surely concede that. But apparently he hadn’t, if the latest text message was anything to go by.

_we’re all just swell over here today. wake up and smell the roses, harrison._

Within minutes, his phone pinged again with a message.

_hilarious. think you’re mixing metaphors._

And then another:

_btw pattie called last night._

John clucked his tongue like an admonishing mother at that, immediately asking what she’d said—but he thought he had a good idea already.

He finished his bowl of cereal and tossed it in the sink for later, just remembering to grab his wallet before he slid into his shoes and stepped out into the hallway. He’d give Ringo a call on his way into work, he decided as he locked the door behind him, and headed for the doors to the lift downstairs. John was partially interrupted by a too-familiar figure appearing from the flight of stairs just by the lift, immediately recognizing his next-door neighbor in clothes like he’d been at the gym.

“Lift’s gone and broke down again,” Mick informed him airily, twirling his keys around one finger. “I’ve already told them downstairs.”

“Bloody fantastic,” John grumbled. “Well…lovely way to start a Monday, I s’pose.”

Mick pulled a quick grimace at that, but then still shot him a smile. “Don’t think too much of it, John. You’ve got the whole day yet to get better…or worse.”

He took off at that, leaving John to roll his eyes—from all he had seen of his neighbor in the past few months, he was very seldom still, darting around like a hummingbird and often dressed just as colorfully. The first time he’d spotted him in some of the more conservative clothing he wore to work (apparently, he had a job as an accountant at some big firm, which John refused to believe), he nearly hadn’t recognized him.

But John would be able to pick his distinct voice out by now. He was accustomed to overhearing him through the thin shared walls of their flats, jabbering away, arguing, or else groaning and/or screaming less-than-squeaky-clean things while he and his boyfriend had some of the loudest sex John thought was humanly possible. Half the time, it sounded like they were trying to murder each other instead.

Keith was a different beast entirely—John thought in all his time here, they’d maybe exchanged something close to fifty words. Quiet, maybe even shy, seemingly dressed almost perpetually in black with a large earring dangling from one lobe, John heard more from him over in the flat than he did out in face to face interactions. Sometimes, he thought he could catch the distinct sound of a guitar being played.

The first time he’d had any significant encounter with them beyond a quick introduction was probably in the second week after he’d moved in. It had been a Friday night, John’s only major plans including lying around and watching cooking shows on TV in his pajamas, and he’d been in the middle of making a big bag of popcorn to aid him in his efforts when there came a sharp rapping at the door. Baffled but morbidly intrigued, he’d peered through the peep hole and then sighed—well, better get this over with.

Swinging open the door had revealed Mick and Keith with a group of about five other people, all dressed to go out for the night. Mick in particular stood out in maroon trousers so tight they left very little to the imagination, and equally striking, glittery eyeshadow and nail polish. It made Keith’s usual leather and eyeliner look practically subdued in comparison, and John had blinked twice.

“We,” Mick had declared, sweeping his arm out to indicate the assembled party. “Are going out. To Studio 54. You’re welcome to come along, if you want.”

“Only Mick says you spend too much time at home,” A blonde bloke said snidely, and Mick threw him a sharp look.

“Shut up, Brian. I—we—just thought we wouldn’t mind another person.”

What the hell had they been saying about him? One of Keith’s dark eyebrows had been raised, surveying John in his sloppy clothes, though his one hand remained clasped with Mick’s free one. There was something about this that had just seemed to further irritate John.

“Er…thanks. But that’s, uh…OK. I don’t feel that great tonight.”

Mick had looked like he wanted to try and persuade him otherwise, but his posse had managed to cajole him away. A little past two that night, John had overheard him and Keith return, their footsteps clattering out in the corridor as they tried to stifle breathless laughter. By now, John had nearly learned to tune it out—and also since then, the invitations to go out anywhere had been sparse.

Not that John’s feelings were anything remotely like envy. Some people just got lucky, others had their partner leave them for super chic, sophisticated German art dealers.

Hypothetically speaking, of course.

He hustled down the long flights of stairs, brushing the thought from his mind like a cobweb as he retrieved his phone again and called Ringo’s number. It took him hardly four rings to pick up.

“’Lo, John.”

“Morning to you too, darling. What’s all the fuss about already?”

“It’s not a _fuss,_ only…well, a bloke’s allowed to be nervous not even three-ish weeks before his wedding, isn’t he?”

“I reckon so. I think I’d be shitting bricks, if I was you.”

“Well, there you have it, then.”

“What’s got your knickers in a bunch this time? Caterers aren’t giving you trouble again, are they?”

“No, thank god—I think they’re sorted out. It’s just the _principle_ of the thing, you know. The whole matrimony concept.”

John paused at a crosswalk with a cluster of other people, scoffing into his phone. “Oh god, don’t start this shite again. Why does everyone always behave like getting married is signing a death certificate?”

“It’s not, but it’s a big step, innit?”

“Have you talked to Mo about it?”

“Why would I talk to Mo about it?”

“Now, see this…this is why I can’t help you,” John told him as he crossed the street, giving an eye roll that Ringo couldn’t see.

Ringo huffed on the other end, the sigh all but resonated. “Oh, like _you’re_ one to talk—”

They nitpicked a bit more on John’s way to the usual café for his morning coffee, and Ringo was the one to finally put an end to it.

 _“Anyway,_ I think there was something else I was supposed to ask you, but fuck me, I can’t remember what it was now.”

“Can’t have been that important then,” John said dismissively as he joined the queue inside the busy little café. It was warmer in here, a welcome reprieve from the early autumn chill just beginning to creep into the air outside. “Lemme know if it comes back to you.”

“Will do. See you later, John.”

“Cheers.”

John hung up and then shuffled forward to pay for his overpriced cup of coffee, curling his fingers gratefully around the warmth it emitted. Hadn’t he seen some article once suggesting that lonely people found warm drinks more soothing because they weakly imitated the touch of another person? Well, that was bullshit.

He still thought about it on his way to the bus station. Once settled into his seat, he immediately started scrolling through the news headlines on his phone, and when done with that, absentmindedly clicked on the option to read his horoscope—he’d never admit it to George, who was the only one who even thought about his, but from time to time he liked to check.

The familiar scales symbol for Libra popped up on the screen. _“Friends certainly know how to get you all wound up. The planetary alignment brings up a tricky situation, in which you can decide to either take something further, or simply not bother at all. There seems to be no middle ground—no halfway house, no "let’s see how we get on." Either you do or you don't. Take your time in order to choose wisely.”_

It had part of it right, John thought snidely—his friends did always know how to get him wound up. The rest of it, however, likely also fell under the bullshit category. Had he really expected any different?

He was the first one in at his secondhand bookshop, which didn’t surprise him much—some days, it was _only_ him in here. Tucked away from the main stretch of road, the premises weren’t ideal for business, but he did a decent enough turn here and usually had a steady trickle of customers throughout the day. Once, to his amusement, Cyn had found the store on a list of some “indie, underground local shops” on a travel blogger’s page, raving about the atmosphere and how “charmingly shabby” it was.

“That’s a word for it,” John had snickered, and proceeded to print the review out and pin it up on the wall. For the next few weeks after that, a distinctly younger and hipster-looking crowd had filtered through the shop all of a sudden, so he couldn’t complain too much.

But it was empty now, in the quiet just before he opened up for the day. The Glass Onion had been his own for two years now, and he hadn’t regretted buying it ever since. Stu had been with him the day the keys had been handed over him, and the two of them had toasted the opening together later with a bottle of cheap wine.

Even now, on the counter by the till was a small collection of _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland-_ themed memorabilia, John’s favorite childhood book. A tiny Cheshire Cat lay curled atop the computer monitor, and off on the wall, prints of some illustrations from the story. John had kept them up there because they looked nice on the faded wallpaper behind them, but in truth, it somewhat hurt to study them again—they’d been a gift from Stuart. In every corner of his life that he looked, his ex somehow remained.

The squashy, comfy chairs were deserted at this hour, the narrow space between the shelves lined with books still empty. Normally, John might put a record on from the dwindling “vinyl section” (really just a couple boxes propped up on tables), but he hardly had time to even consider it before the bell over the door jingled.

“Morning, John.”

“’Lo, Cyn.”

Her long blonde hair dancing behind her, Cynthia moved to stash her own bag behind the counter. In ordinary terms, she would probably be called something like the “assistant manager,” what she really was was a part-time worker looking to make some extra money while she went back to school for an art degree. Nevertheless, she was about fifty times better at keeping the other workers organized than John was, and the day he’d agree to hire her had really been a complete coup for him.

“Did you have a good weekend?”

“Yeah, er…” He’d spent most of it completely pissed, wondering aloud to George about where things had gone wrong with Stuart, but. Whatever. “It was all right. Yours?”

“My mum came to see me. Bit quiet, really.”

“That’s, uh…good.”

There was a slight, awkward pause, before Cyn took a breath and pressed on. “We went over to the Castillo Gallery the other day. The one over on Atwood? We saw Stuart there.”

It was almost embarrassing how badly John’s stomach seemed to flip at that. “Oh…you did? Yeah, I think that’s where he was trying to get some of his stuff put on display. Did you…I mean…talk to him at all?”

He tried to sound nonchalant about it, deliberately avoiding Cyn’s gaze as he counted up the money in the till for the day, but he could still hear the note of sympathy in her voice. “A bit. He seems to be doing well. He asked about you.”

John nearly dropped some of the bills in his hand at that. “What did you say?” Christ, she better have lied through her teeth—

“I told him that you were doing fine. That’s all.”

He exhaled shortly at that, then gave a nod. “Well, that’s all right.” Cyn had been with him on numerous occasions when he idly, almost instinctively, checked up on Stuart on various social media platforms, so she had seen him in various moments that weren’t his proudest yet—but still. The fact that she had covered for him was good of her to do.

Another tense beat. “Have you…I dunno…talked to him at all since then? I thought he sounded like he missed you. He might like to see you again.”

John hadn’t seen Stuart in person since the day he had left their shared flat, the last of his belongings stashed in a rucksack and his aching heart practically glued to his sleeve. It hadn’t exactly been a pretty picture. “I don’t want to see _him_ again, so. Bit of a moot point, isn’t it?”

Cyn bit down on her lip, but didn’t press the point any further. John was inwardly starving a bit to ask for more details—how had he looked? Tiny pictures on Instagram only did so much justice. Had he really changed his hair around like that? Did he really dress creepily alike his girlfriend now? Had Astrid been there too?

John had only ever seen her in pictures, and for a few fleeting moments when he had been moving his things from his former flat. Short blonde hair, big grey eyes. Pretty. And according to her resume on her website, hardly an underachiever—she’d been making circles as a dealer and photographer alike in the art world both here and back home in her native Germany, traveling around the continent until she settled down in London. And the artistic, aspiring, opportunistic love of John’s life had met her at a gallery one afternoon last year, and that had been the end of that.

In any case, it was time to put it all behind him, and focus on the day ahead. John did a sweep of the shop to make sure all was in order before he unlocked the front door and swung it open, propping it in position with an old doorstop. Let another day begin.

But… _had_ Stu really sounded like he missed him?

He was mulling it over as he looked through the bookshelves when a middle-aged biddy in a pink shirt came to accost him. “Hello, there. You haven’t got the latest Liane Moriarty, have you?”

“Check up front with the new stuff. Or if all else fails, the fiction section under ‘M’ ought to do it.”

He was granted a smile as she turned and tottered off on her mission, leaving John to continue his thoughts. Besides a few stray text messages at the beginning of their separation, Stuart had given no indication that he’d been thinking of John at all. Perhaps that was all to the good, especially considering his _own_ behavior in those truly early days.

Back it was still raw, still so fresh, and after a night of drinking alone it really didn’t take much mental effort to fire off rounds of angry, clingy text messages. He’d finally stopped when Ringo threatened to chuck his phone into the river and have done with it. He and George had made him do the whole nine yards, unfollowing Stuart on every social media he was on and deleting his number. Since then, it’d been radio silence, as perhaps well it ought to be.

But if there was a _chance._

The rest of the day passed in much of the same kind of blur. It had begun to drizzle on his walk home from the bus station, hardly unusual for London at this time of year. But it didn’t do much to lift his spirits as he plodded upstairs and unlocked the door to the flat—and what he found there was hardly anything but a little drizzle. A sizable water spot had appeared in his bedroom on the ceiling, and by the looks of it, had been steadily dripping water down into his room for hours now.

John swore aloud, scampering around to survey the damage. At the least, it looked like all expensive things like his laptop had been spared, but if he tried to sit on the bed, he’d likely drown himself. All the clothes he had scattered on the floor were either soaked or at least damp, and his wooden dresser would be coming out rather worse for the wear. He didn’t want to get up on the bed, and so opted to haul his desk chair over and climb onto it in order to inspect the ceiling.

The upstairs neighbor must have flooded the bathroom or the like, and the worst of it was still raining down on his crappy little flat right now. From within his jeans pocket, John’s phone began to buzz with an incoming call just then. He instinctively moved to grab it, whether to silence it or pick it up, but the motion caused him to lose his balance instead. The revolving chair slid out from under him, John flailed at nothing for a heartbeat or two, and then he proceeded to fall to the floor with an almighty crash as the chair spun away and bounced off the dresser.

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ!” John swore again, head aching from where he’d smacked it on the bed, his knee pounding away, all of him mildly damp from hitting the water-slicked floor. He could only lie there for a moment or several, contemplating his place in the world, before he rolled over onto his back, absolutely fuming mad—and he’d forgotten all about his phone call in all that.

He hoisted a hand up and used it to pull himself dramatically upwards, knee barking in pain. From above, more water continued to drip onto his head. John gave it one last disgusted look before he limped out of the bedroom, figuring he ought to at least get some buckets set up and then call the landlord.

There came a knock at the door when he was in the kitchen, and John nearly groaned aloud. “Oi, are you all right in there?” He recognized Keith’s voice—he must have heard the resulting commotion as John nearly killed himself.

“Yeah, nothing to worry about!”

“Only there was this godawful crash—did you fall?”

“It’s all _fine,_ now fuck off!”

He could only hope Keith took the hint as he collected what pots and pans he had and used them to collect the worst of the drainage yet. Finally, he was able to settle down with a makeshift icepack on his knee, changed into dry clothes, and curled up on the sofa with some tea. The phone call from earlier had been from his Aunt Mimi, who left him a voicemail.

“Hello John, it’s me. Your aunt. I expect you know that by now, don’t you? These phones tell you that and everything. I know you want to insist on doing that dreadful texting, but I’m really no good at it. In any case, please give me a ring when you get this.”

John could guess what she wanted to discuss—she called him at least once a week to rehash everything that had happened to her back home, from the latest drama at the garden club to the shoes she had bought for half-price. Most times, John could hardly get a word in edgewise, but then…there often wasn’t much new to report. If he told her now about the miniature flood in his flat, she’d have something of a breakdown and immediately advise him to be on the phone with several other people.

He simply couldn’t deal with Mimi right now. What was more, a text from Ringo had finally appeared on the screen.

_i remember what i had to ask u! mo wants to know if seating changed. are u planning on bringing anyone?_

It had been very easy in the beginning, of course—back when Ringo and Maureen had first gotten engaged, John was simply going to the wedding with his boyfriend. After The Breakup (it was hard not to mentally capitalize it like some sort of significant historical event, the end of an era), the topic had been broached again, but John was quick to insist that Stu should still be invited…he was still Ringo’s friend, after all.

But there was a vacancy yet to be filled here. Besides a couple of rather intoxicated one-night stands scattered here and there (one girl had been more interested in curling up on the couch with Pepper and cooing over him), he had made no progress on the relationship front at all—certainly no one he would expect to bring along to his mate’s wedding. As one of the groomsmen, John would be paired off with one of Maureen’s bridesmaids anyway, but an actual _date_ wasn’t anywhere in the cards.

_nope. not desperate enough to bring my aunt yet either._

_that’s ok…george can be ur date instead._ This was accompanied by a string of those emojis with their tongues sticking out. John wasn’t the only one who would have an ex in attendance at the wedding, so truthfully, he and George might as well stick together.

_i’ve asked him before. turned me down flat. must not be his type??_

_it’s ok, john. just thought i’d check. what r u up to now?_

With his free hand, John reached up to gingerly prod the bump swelling up on his head. When he relayed some of the story to Ringo, his friend proved to be hardly sympathetic.

_wtf toilet water??? ur place will stink now._

_i’ll get some air freshener. and then i’ll kill the guy who lives above me._

_wouldn’t blame u._

George got to hear the story too when John gave him a ring later, and he heard him chortle at it.

“Well, that…bloody sucks. Sorry.”

“So I’m camping out on the couch for a bit, I s’pose. Are you still at the shop?”

“Yeah. Got a massive order to fill by the end of the week. It’s for another wedding, of course.”

“Of course. They’re going around these days, or so I’m told. And hey, that reminds me…Rings seems to think you’re going solo to his own ceremony of matrimony.”

“Well, he’s right. Pattie chucked me the other week, remember?”

“Yeah, but you said she had called again—”

“That doesn’t mean anything’s happening. We might shag over the weekend or something, that’s all.”

John scoffed a little at that. “D’you have it penciled into your planner and all, then? 9 P.M. Saturday, done in ten minutes, tops. Thank you, we’ll see you next time!”

“What kind of sex are you having that takes ten minutes? You can’t even make a decent breakfast in ten minutes.”

“Not true. You can heat up a toaster strudel in less than five, and get the coffee on too.”

“That hardly counts—”

The debate about what both constituted a decent breakfast and a decent sex session might have gone on for a while, but George was insistent he had to finish up his order so he could head for home at a reasonable hour. Finally backed into a corner, John had little choice but to return his aunt’s phone call.

Fortunately, Mimi didn’t want to stay on the line long, as John had called her in the middle of her “detective show.” Janice from next door had gone and done something stupid to her lawn again, though he couldn’t tell what, and Mimi also offhandedly mentioned she was thinking of coming down to see him again soon.

“I could stay for a weekend, couldn’t I? Even at your…new place?”

Mimi didn’t approve of where he was now, of course. She had offered to wire him some money so he could afford to live somewhere “proper,” but John’s badly-wounded pride could never stomach it. He wasn’t some teenager anymore either, he didn’t need hand-outs from the woman who had raised him. He thought now of his water-logged bedroom and exhaled sharply.

“Er…yeah, you could. Only you’ve got to promise not to fuss about it, all right?”

“Oh John, I don’t _fuss._ I simply think you could be doing better for yourself, that’s all.”

She had often echoed a similar sentiment back when John had first started seeing Stuart, and then again when they moved in together. Her visits to them as a couple had been few and far between, and John supposed that besides the downgrading in living situation, she was likely relishing the idea of coming down to see only him.

“Well…it’s getting better. It is. Maybe we could try for about a month out.” That would give him time to clean the place up, not to mention get through the major ordeal that was Ringo’s wedding. It would also present him with the opportunity to try and act like his life was actually together—and that was going to take a lot of work.

He’d had something good before The Breakup. A comfortable flat (that had never once leaked water onto him), a boyfriend he adored, and a social circle they could both mingle in on weekend nights. If they ever spent a night at home, they were usually together and cuddled on the couch to watch something. Now, it felt like he was at home with the TV and the cat more often than not. It had been all right to wallow in that initial misery just afterwards, but by now…wasn’t it getting to be too much?

Unfortunately, as Ringo had predicted, the flat was now starting to smell distinctly…not good. John could locate nothing in the way of air fresheners or even a candle, and came to the begrudged conclusion that as he didn’t want to run out and get something, if he didn’t want to choke in his sleep, he’d have to see if he could go and borrow materials from next door. “Wish me luck, Pep,” He bemoaned to the cat now, who seemed more concerned with giving himself his evening wash.

With some trepidation, he headed over to the flat next door and took a deep breath, steeling himself before he sharply rapped on it. There was a pause, a scuffling of the lock being undone, and then the door opened as Mick appeared there in a silk robe that nearly trailed to the floor, looking almost bemused.

“Well, _this_ is a surprise—need to borrow a cup of sugar?”

“Er…candles, actually. Or something like that. My whole place reeks over there.”

“God, what did you do?”

“It wasn’t me—the arsehole above me went and flooded his bathroom. Most of it came and landed on me instead.”

Mick’s mouth twitched in the beginnings of a smile before he composed himself. “Oh, well…come in for a minute, then. I’ll find you something.”

The flat had a similar layout to John’s own, and its current occupants clearly were fine with a bit of a mess as he was. But there was something about it that felt homier too—the artwork on the walls, the twirling strand of fairy lights wound around a bookshelf, the pictures pinned up to the refrigerator. John idly glanced at them as he stood in the kitchen, recognizing Mick and Keith among all sorts of other people. There was one of the two of them together in some city, Mick’s face just turned to press a kiss to Keith’s cheek. That hurt to look at.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got…something like a fan as well? Or even, I dunno, a hair dryer? I’ve got to go to try and dry my stuff off.”

“God, how bad is it?” Mick asked the question aloud as he rooted in the cabinet under the sink, but without waiting for an answer, spun around to yell into the living room. “Keith! Go and get that one fan out from the closet, would you, love?”

“We had a similar problem last year,” He started to narrate to John, stacking supplies up on the kitchen counter. “Stupid prick above us let the tub overflow, but he got it under control before too long. Keith didn't even have time to threaten to knife-fight him. Guess you weren’t as lucky?”

“Guess not.”

Keith padded into the kitchen with a brown dog at his heels, one John recognized from a memorable afternoon where Pepper had gotten loose and been chased around outside by the mutt in question (Jack? Yes, that was its name). It bounded forward and over to him now, tail wagging, and despite the previous bad blood, John gave it a pat as Keith held out a small electric fan.

“Will this do the trick?”

“That ought to do it. I’ll bring it back tomorrow.”

He accepted the fan and the air fresheners from Mick, pausing for a moment longer. “Er…cheers, the both of you.”

“No trouble at all,” Keith assured him, leaning against the counter next to Mick, their hips brushing. He tucked his hands behind his head in the next moment, the dog coming to sit by his heels.

Mick paused for a moment as if thinking something over, and then evidently decided to pursue what was on his mind. “Say, John…we’re having a party over here this Saturday night. You’re invited, if you want to be.”

As of right now, the only alternative was sitting in his flat and overhearing all the noise from there—a prospect he relished even less. And besides, another weekend night spent wallowing alone over there was hardly anything to look forward to. At least this way, he would be _doing_ something.

“That sounds…good. Yeah, good. I’ll come round then once it starts getting _too_ damn loud over here.”

Keith gave a bit of a shifty grin at that. “Sorry about that, mate. Thin walls and such.”

 _You don’t have to tell me twice,_ John thought wryly, but decided to hold his tongue here—they’d been kind enough to help him out. Armed with his supplies now, John headed back to his flat and got to work. It was some time later before he finally collapsed back on the couch with a blanket this time, completely and utterly knackered—today had been long, to say the least.

Tomorrow, he thought idly, he’d have to go over the accounts at work and see what was what at the end of the month here, never something he looked forward to. Stu used to tease him about it, used to say he knew to leave him alone when John came hauling the folders full of paperwork home with him. And oh god…where had Cyn seen him again? The Castillo?

He was soon looking up the gallery’s website, taken to a sleek and minimalist landing page that offered general information about the place, as well as upcoming and current exhibits. Curious, he headed over to the forthcoming exhibit, something called “Illusions of Realism.” Deep. It was put together by someone named Klaus Voormann, a name that sounded vaguely familiar to John—had he perhaps heard it before? In any case, his eyes were soon drawn to a different name on the same page.

Sure enough, in the list of featured artists was Stuart Sutcliffe. John didn’t need to click on the link to read about his artistic style or any of his accomplishments—he knew all that already. But to see his name and his work included in a very prestigious gallery, one that he knew that he’d been vying to get into. It looked like they had paid off for him, and a strange surge of bittersweet happiness ran through John as he thought about that.

It was still lingering by the time he set his alarm and curled up to try and fall asleep. How many nights had he spent sleeping alone now? He still didn’t feel quite used to it, but the couch was better for that than being back in his bed anyway. Maybe tonight he’d chalk it up to a good thing—though considering the damp, water-logged, and slightly smelly mess that was his bedroom, maybe not.

Stu would have laughed to see it. It wouldn’t have seemed so bad then.

***

The next morning at the bookshop found John hastily munching away on a chocolate croissant for breakfast while juggling several things at once—among them, trying to keep a shouting match from escalating with his landlord about who was paying for what damage in his flat, pulling out the accounts for the month, and sorting another box of books that had arrived. He finally had to get off the phone and put the account books aside to deal with the latter task, something that actually came as a welcome reprieve.

A woman with frizzy hair and wide eyes popping behind her glasses had overheard the gist of his spat with the landlord. “That’s not on, love,” She told him in a hushed voice. “It’s those landlords and all—think they own everything over their tenant. Most of them are nothing but money-grabbers, is what I say, just like the whole government!”

“Maybe you’re right,” John grumbled, watching as she slid a pile of tattered paperback novels over for purchase. He made a mental note to corner Mick or Keith later and perhaps ask how they’d handled the same bloke in the past with their own problems.

He had work to do anyway. John brought round the cardboard box of books from the room in the back, peeling open the lid only to instantly be greeted by that non-unpleasant, dusty aroma of books that were older now, had once been loved. The idea of this place was to give them another shot at that, perhaps—at least, he tried to believe that most days.

While tussling with a handful of paperbacks, John accidentally dropped a couple of them, and one went skidding underneath the space between the floor and the shelf. He cursed lightly, then glanced up and down the aisle—nobody in sight. With a sigh, he crouched down to try and grope for it under the shelf, but it had simply gone too far. Huffing aloud, John positioned himself so he was more on his stomach, reaching underneath to grab for the stupid thing with much vexed muttering.

“C’mere you stupid, bloody, fuck—”

“Er…pardon me?”

A soft, almost cautious voice was dimly heard from up above, and John smacked his head on the bottom of the book shelf in his quick attempt to lift himself up. This was the second time in two days, and he hissed in pain as his eyes watered at the contact. But his fingers had closed down on the paperback, and he held it loosely now in limp fingers as he squinted up at the tall person standing next to him.

And he _was_ tall, wearing a grey jumper and long legs encased in jeans. John staggered to his feet, adjusting his glasses back on his nose as the guy resumed speaking.

“Sorry, it’s just, uh…the girl up front said I ought to speak to you about any new arrivals. You’re John, right?”

“Depends who’s asking,” John responded, but he nodded all the same—and especially when the bloke smiled. Now standing and on eye level, it was more than a little disconcerting to realize he had a stunning face, all big brown eyes and a soft mouth curled up in a bemused smile. “But, uh…yeah.”

“Well…I’m Paul, for what it’s worth. She said you’ve got a record section here somewhere?”

The voice was interesting too, it wasn’t an accent from around here, but sounded distinctly northern like John’s own. It was almost soothing, John thought he could have given him one of the books in his hands right now to read aloud (or hell, the map of the Tube even) and it would have sounded lovely, but that was a bit much. He dropped the paperback back into the box, gesturing for Paul to follow him.

“Might be we do.”

It wasn’t much, but the neat rows of records that John had amassed stood out in their own special section of the shop. “That’s all we’ve got for right now,” He explained. “You’re welcome to go through it, take your time and all. I’ll be around.”

“Great, thanks.” A slight pause, and then Paul lifted his hand up to sort of gesture to his chin. “By the way, you’ve got…well, it looks like a bit of chocolate—”

From the bloody croissant. John pawed at his face to wipe it clean, and Paul looked almost amused. “There’s the ticket. I’ll just, uh…be over then.”

“Yeah, uh…let me know.”

Within minutes, John had shut himself up in the tiny WC in the shop to ensure all chocolate smears were off his face—only to realize that his stint under the bookshelf had mussed his hair horribly and caused him to go all red-faced. Not to mention the unfortunate position he’d found himself at first…it just went to show—good-looking guy shows up in the shop, and of course the first thing he saw was John half-stuck under the bookshelf with his arse pointed straight up in the air. No wonder he seemed to think it funny.

John slouched back over to the till when he was done, leaving Cyn to cast him a look. “Get all the books sorted then?”

“Oh, uh…not yet.”

“Well, did you handle that customer?”

“Yeah, uh…he should be good.”

It only took a short time afterwards for Paul to come wandering back over, an old Chuck Berry record in his hand. “Don’t believe I’ve got this one lying around at home—and you can never go wrong with this, can you?”

“Good choice,” John remarked. “Got a lot of those at home myself.”

Paul dug out the bills to pay for it, and John watched as he handed the money over. “You’ve got some decent stuff over there—how come you don’t have a bigger section for it?”

“Well, it’s not a music shop, is it?” John asked as he rang up the change. “Just count it as a bonus, I suppose.”

Paul gave an amicable shrug at that as he collected his purchase in the bag Cyn handed over to him. “Fair enough. But I think people would like something like that.”

John opened his mouth to argue further, but Cyn swiftly beat him to the punch. “We’ll keep that in mind, thank you.”

He nodded at that, then lifted his arm up to check his watch, the sleeve of his jumper rolling down just enough to reveal an arm dusted with dark hair. “Oh hell, I’m going to be late for that meeting. Thank you both.” With one last parting smile, Paul turned and headed out the door, the bell tinkling behind him.

“Well…he was cute,” Cyn remarked, and John rolled his eyes.

“Rubbish. Coming in here and thinking he can tell me how to run things.”

“Oh, stop. It’s not a bad idea. Actually, I was thinking that maybe we could get some artwork in here—”

“Hold on there, Cyn. Let’s, uh…circle back to that one, yeah? We’ll talk about it later.”

Cyn hesitated for a moment, but she nodded all the same, and John let out a sigh as he slid out from behind the counter. “Anyways…I better get back to work. Distractions come in all shapes. 'Idle hands, devil's workshop' and all that noise.”

But he couldn’t afford that now, he reckoned, moving back to shelve the books. He had to first try and get through the next handful of weeks, if that were possible, and dallying in artwork and lovely wide eyes certainly weren’t part of that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again! it's my hope that the wait for an update has been worth it--i have a busy schedule and i often lack the time/energy to write regularly. this next chapter is a bit longer, perhaps to make up for the delay.
> 
> also, please know that i do see and read any and all comments (left here, people who drop me asks on tumblr, etc.) i don't always respond to each one of them because i feel like replying with an endless stream of "thank you!! i'm so happy you liked it! please keep reading!!" will get annoying--but i sincerely feel that every time. they really do make my whole day and provide me with a boost to keep going. thank you all <3

Unsurprisingly, going over the accounts for the month had hardly been a comforting thing. Parked at a spot in the cafe, John pored over the spreadsheets armed with a red pen and his third cup of coffee of the day, taking up the entirety of the little table with his papers.

At the least, he’d gotten the crap with the landlord resolved. He wouldn’t have to pay for any of the damage done, thank god, but it did mean he’d have to deal with workmen showing up to clean up the ceiling a bit—so for a little while, at least, he envisioned plenty of nights ahead with the sofa as his bed.

Or maybe he ought to start spending the night at the bookshop, if he wanted to cut down on costs across the map—except, he thought grimly once the thought had seriously taken root in his mind, then he’d have to pay even more for the store’s electric bill. Maybe not.

Still, he’d have to do some recalculating. Sitting behind the till at the workplace was hardly the ideal spot, but nor did he want to take any of it home with him. As such, John utilized a lunch break to drag it all over with him. It was tedious, near-disheartening work, and he kept getting distracted by the music playing through his earbuds and casually leaving tiny doodles on the paper before he snapped himself back into concentration. Sort of.

He was interrupted again by his phone buzzing away with an incoming call, and forced himself to sound cheery enough when he picked up.

“Auntie Mater! Fancy hearing from you on this fine—what day is it? Wednesday afternoon!”

Elizabeth—‘Mater’ to her family, and Mimi’s younger sister—gave a good-natured scolding sound. “Oh Johnny, that’s enough of that. You never bother to give your old aunt a ring as it is, do you now?”

John hardly had the mental capacity for any attempts to guilt-trip him from his extended family—Mimi and her three sisters, or as he silently referred to them, The Collective, had not quite let go of the idea yet that the little boy they had taken to the park, snuck candy to, and generally coddled to the point of indulgence was now fully-grown and living independently—and had been tying up his own shoes for years now. Mimi at least had some clue into John’s life, the others mostly relied on the secondhand gossip from their elder sister.

“I’m sorry, Mater…it’s been busy as hell for me down here.”

“So Mimi tells me! But dear, what’s all this about you living in a _slum?”_

“I’m not—I don’t live in a slum!” John whisper-hissed into the phone, keenly aware he was still in public. “Mimi only thinks that because I’m not in Notting Hill or something.”

“John, love…I know you were quite beside yourself when things fell apart with that Stuart. But letting yourself _go_ isn’t doing you any favors either!”

“I haven’t let myself bloody go!” John spluttered—but he could only imagine what horror stories Mimi had been spinning to her sisters, tales of him locked in his Victorian-esque workhouse with only a rusty tub of ice water to bathe himself in, turning to the bottle to drink the pain away. Well, all right, maybe he _did_ drink a little too much—

“Well, uh…that’s good to know.”

It wasn’t his aunt’s voice ringing in his ear…but one from in person, nearby, a sound that caused John’s ears to perk up. When he looked upwards, he nearly dropped his phone onto the table. Standing right there, a mere few feet in front of him, was the cute bloke with the doe eyes who’d wandered into the shop the other day. Paul. He must have heard him squawking down the phone to his aunt.

His cheeks couldn’t help but flush as Paul raised his eyebrows inquisitively, seeming almost amused. Mater was now chattering away, but John managed to head her off quick. “Listen, I…I’m in the middle of doing some stuff for work, I’ve really got to dash. I promise I’ll give you a ring later, all right? Much love.”

He hung up and plonked his phone down, fighting the urge to bury his face in his hands, and Paul made a quiet sort of contrary sound.

“I’m…sorry, look, I didn’t mean to listen in like that, but—”

“But I was being loud,” John swiftly interrupted him, giving a small, wry smile. “Sorry. Family shite, you know.”

“I do know,” Paul agreed. He nodded towards John’s papers then, lifting his cup with his drink in it. “But if you’re busy…I’ll let you get back to it.”

“I’m not _that_ busy. I’d have told my aunt the queen herself just walked in if it meant I had an excuse to hang up.” A beat, and then he nodded to the seat opposite him, where he currently had his feet propped up. “D’you…want to sit down for a minute?”

“Oh…a bit then. Can’t stay long, the lunch hour’s almost over.”

“And where are we off to afterwards?”

“Just down the road a ways. I teach over at Holden.”

Now _that_ was new, John thought as he moved his feet and Paul sat down opposite him. The secondary school was fairly upper-crust, a big public one where all the rich people sent their little snot-nosed kids to get an education. He would sometimes walk past the big, grey stone building on walks about the area, now and again noticing the children in their neatly-pressed uniforms running around outside.

“Oh, do we now? That’s a very posh school, isn’t it?” It was exactly the sort of place he would have hated at that age, and exactly the sort of place Mimi would have nodded approvingly over.

“It is. So as you can imagine…it pays the bills. And I like the teaching bit.”

“Bit of a lark, isn’t it? Long as the little ones mind their p’s and q’s and know how to tell a salad fork from a dinner fork, right?”

Paul arched a thin eyebrow at that. “Don’t have a high opinion of the education system, I take it?”

“It never really took for me, shall we say.” But then, John had never had a teacher who looked like Paul—perhaps he might have been a bit more inclined to put in some effort then. He had little doubt already that he was the one all the kids fancied.

“Well, be that as it may…the only thing I’m instructing them in is how to hold is a clarinet properly or the like. I teach music.”

“’Course. I mean, if I was going to teach something…I guess that would be up there.”

“But clearly it didn’t call to you. How long have you had the bookshop?”

“About two years now. What can I say, such as it is…it’s me pride and joy.”

Paul smiled at that—and god, but he really did have a lovely one. “Well, maybe the opinion of someone fairly new to town doesn’t count so much…but I liked it. Best bookshop I’ve been in since I got here.”

“Oh, come off it,” John said, but he couldn’t help but grin a little too. “You must not have been around that much, then. When did you blow into old London town?”

“About two months back, to start the teaching job. You?”

“Well…longer than that. Not long after I left uni.” He had been living in a place even more undesirable than where he was now, but he hadn’t minded much—and of course, meeting Stuart again after he hadn’t seen him in years had changed that. Changed a lot of things. He couldn’t allow himself to dwell on that now.

“And then, uh…then I opened up the shop. Doing the accounts for it now, as you can tell, it’s obviously a thrilling process.”

“Probably about as much as grading papers. Thank god I get to skip a lot of that with my place. And speaking of which…” He checked his watch again, a surprisingly endearing gesture (after all, who wore a _watch_ these days) before pulling a bit of a grimace. “I’d better start heading back. Can’t afford to be late now.”

“Wouldn’t want you to be—can’t deprive the kids of an education, now.” But a part of him was strangely disappointed—talking to Paul was certainly better, at least, than poring over the accounts. He made for a nice distraction. “If you’re ever…out on another break, you know where to find me.”

“I guess that I do.” His eyes were kind. People talked about that in books, but John had hardly seen anyone before who embodied it so completely. Paul was standing up, adjusting the satchel that hung over one shoulder, and in the process, it almost completely knocked John’s cup of coffee over on his papers.

His reflexes were quicker—and he was _not_ doing this again, twice in one week—but the resulting scramble caused half of the papers to slip to the floor instead, scattering all about the place. He and Paul swore in unison, both of them hurrying to collect the fallen papers. Somewhere in the process, they both grabbed for the same one, and their fingers wound up brushing against each other’s.

Paul didn’t immediately jolt back, and nor did John. They lingered there for a moment longer instead, gazes darting up to meet the other’s, and it was finally John who made a small sound and plucked the paper up. “I’m just gonna say it…there are easier ways to get someone’s attention.”

“Couldn’t leave without making a bit of a scene, I s’pose,” Paul countered—for indeed, other people had turned to stare their way at the sound of the kerfuffle. Luckily, all of the important documents seemed to have made it through their journey without any stains or shoe marks from being trod on, and John was grateful for that as he got to work putting them together again.

Paul made to apologize, but John waved him off. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse happen to me as of late.”

He looked almost curious at that, like he wanted to ask more, but decided against it. “OK, well…cheers, then. Maybe I’ll see you later, John.”

“Maybe you will.” A tiny bit of him hoped so, and he watched as Paul strode from the café and out into the sunlight outside, disappearing into the steady stream of foot traffic.

Way too cute for his own good, John decided. Heading over to Holden's website later, John was able to find Paul, or Mr. McCartney, rather, in little time. How curious, to think that someone who bought old Chuck Berry records spent his days teaching classical stuff to bratty kids. Well, at least, he knew already that he had a decent taste in music, and that most certainly counted for something.

 ***

The flower shop had been George’s life for the better half of two years now, after the old owner decided to retire. In the time since then, it had taken on far more of a distinct character, perhaps more indicative of its current owner than anything else. The corner shop had your regular flowers and pots lining the pavement outside, to be sure, but the inside was a cluttered mess of colorful displays and arrangements. Hanging baskets dangled from the ceiling, some of them loosely connected with trailing beads, and a passel of bizarre little gnomes he’d once purchased at a rummage sale for three quid (“yeah, we can tell,” Ringo had said snidely) peeked out here and there from behind pots and within the leaves. Wind chimes swung next to the stained glass set in squares of the windowpane.

And of course there was the small Krishna statue by the counter, but that was something of a different matter. Given the oddity that the rest of the shop sort of was, it didn’t surprise George much when people, from time to time, tried to buy the god from him as an ornamental piece for their garden.

Working in the shop was a job, it was being out where the flowers and the plants really grew where George felt any true semblance of peace. But until he found a way around it, there were still bills to handle and he did occasionally enjoy having money to pay for food—so it was probably the best job for him. On weeks like this one though, he very much wished that the pipe dream of moving out to the country somewhere with only a vast, sprawling garden and the birds for company was more than just that.

Between the job to fill for an upcoming wedding and a business that wanted arrangements done for a banquet, even the amount of regular orders were adding up this week. George was fortunate enough to have a handful of employees always on the task, and was about to find one of them and inform them he’d be nipping out for lunch when things finally slowed down after noon today, but he never got the chance as the door swung open with another customer—and so George had to quash both the thought and his hunger down, remaining behind the counter.

 “’Lo, there.”

The man almost didn’t seem to hear him at first—he was too busy looking up and around, examining the various plants and decorations around the shop. A faint smile had already began to appear on his face by the time he came to address George, the blue eyes with the laugh lines at the corners really did give him more of an impish face.

When he spoke, it was with a bit of a slight accent, something like German. “I’d like to get something for a friend of mine. Somebody told me about this place.”

George couldn’t help but perk up a little. “Oh, sure—can I ask who that was?”

He was reaching for the binder with the laminated pages of arrangement examples in it when the customer gave his response. “A mutual friend, I think…do you know Stuart Sutcliffe?”

The book nearly went crashing to the floor at that—of course George knew him, unless there was a person with the same name going around. He’d only had to spend much of the past weekend listening to John gripe about him. And before that—and well, even still, it wasn’t like they had ceased all contact with each other—he’d considered him something of a friend.

“Er—yeah—I mean, sort of. Did he really recommend this place to you?”

That trace of a smile again. “He did. Said he didn’t know a better florist in the whole city.”

Well—that was something. A little flutter of gratitude waved in George’s chest for a moment as he almost smiled himself, but quickly brought it back together in another second. “That was nice of him to say. Let’s hope I can live up to that—but I’ll let you be the judge.”

He handed the book of designs over to him as he said it. “If it’s for a special occasion, y’know, a birthday or an anniversary, I’ve got all sorts I can do.”

“Thank you.” Up close, it was easy to see the spray of faint freckles that dotted his nose and cheeks—surprisingly almost boyish. Even though he should have let well enough alone, the mutual acquaintance they had here was still intriguing enough for George to pursue the topic.

“So, uh…how d’you know Stu?”

“Oh…I guess you could say we work together,” He responded idly, studying the page before him. “And there’s the fact that he’s going out with my ex-girlfriend. I like this one with the hydrangeas.”

But George’s jaw had nearly hit the counter at that. “Wait, he—you’re—” Distantly, he could recall John explaining that Stu hadn’t been the only one who had to leave somebody in the whole scene—Astrid had had a boyfriend she’d dumped in the whole messy affair. He was an unknown entity to even John, just another sorry sod in a similar boat as he was. It was hard to tell from just this one meeting, of course, but he certainly didn’t _look_ as bereft as John was about the whole thing. Everything about Klaus (was that the name?) radiated pure, cool professionalism.

“Klaus Voormann,” He introduced himself, blue gaze flicking back up to meet George’s. “Which you’ll need for the order too, yes?”

“Uh…yeah.” Of course—and he was being stupid, Christ, acting more like John if someone with this kind of connection had walked into his own shop. He didn’t remotely care…except, well, he would give the still-unknown Astrid a degree of credit, in that she truly knew how to pick her men (he would never say as much to John’s face). “You said that one with the hydrangeas and the asters, yeah?”

“Yes. The pink’s lovely, Lucy will like it. Can I pick them up on Friday?”

“Sure thing.”

He took out one of the order forms and began jotting down all the necessary information, filling in the number and taking down his name. “What time d’you want it ready by?”

“Say around nine, that’ll give me time before the gallery opens.”

“Of course.” The gallery just made his thoughts go back to Stu—he had always liked him, had thought he and John were surprisingly good together. They might have not have halted all forms of communication, but there was no pretending that things were the same as they had been before The Breakup. “Is…Stuart going to have his stuff on display there?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, he’s a real talent—Astrid was lucky to find him. But I assume…you already know enough about all that.”

He didn’t sound really bothered by the subject, nearly as casual as if he were discussing the weather. It was almost suspicious, considering John’s extended reaction to the whole thing, but George found himself warming to the more nonchalant approach. “Yeah, I…I’ve heard plenty. But I’m glad to hear that Stu’s doing so well.”

“We all hope John is the same way. Stuart still thinks of him.”

“Er.” Well. Over the weekend, George had lost one night to a completely drunk John, absolutely beside himself, trying to pinpoint where exactly things had gone wrong and where he must have missed the signs leading up to the end of things.

“But it’s _fine,_ it’s all so fucking fine, Stu gets to run off and play house with his new girlfriend and I’m happy for him! It’s easy when you’re the one doing the leaving, yeah? Never mind what I felt, and how unfair is that, George? Unless it really is both of you who want to call it quits, one person gets to shoot down the whole fucking thing. Just like that!”

George paused. “He’s…grand.”

Klaus did look relieved at that—it felt wrong to lie like that, but at the same time, he knew John would hunt him down if he ever conveyed how miserable he still was. “I’m glad to hear that, Stu would be even more so. I think they could still be friends, if maybe they would speak to each other again.”

“If I had a pound for every time I’ve thought that…let’s just say, I wouldn’t have to be here right now.”

“I can’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else,” Klaus countered simply, gazing around at the shop again. “I’ve never seen a place quite like this. Not quite like a shop. Do you grow much of this yourself?”

“No, I get it all from greenhouses outside the city. But that would be…you know. The dream, maybe someday. To be on their end instead, I guess.”

“I felt the same way when I was one of those starving artists, trying to get my work sold,” Klaus admitted. “And now I’m running one of those galleries I wanted so badly to get into. All of that to say…it happens. It does. I’d never have thought it possible, once.”

It was—perhaps surprisingly—a kind thing for him to say, and George thanked him for it. He studied him for a bit longer, then coughed, returning to the order form. “So what time on Friday, then?”

Klaus gave him a quizzical look. “Didn’t I…?”

Oh. Yes. He’d already asked him that, and written it down on the form too. “Right! Right, of course…nine o’clock. We’ll have it ready to go.”

“Thank you very much. I’ll see you then. And when you talk to John later… I wouldn’t pretend to know Stu as much as he did, or does, but I do know it hurts him to stay distant like this. Maybe John should know that too.”

George wasn’t sure about that—there were only fifty ways or so John could react to that, nearly all of them hardly a good thing. But he nodded, hesitated for a moment, then said, “Thanks. For telling me all this, I guess. Stu was my friend too.”

“I know that. He still speaks very fondly of you.” It seemed like he wanted to say something else, but decided against it as he tapped the counter once. “Friday, then. Goodbye, George.”

“Cheers.”

George waited until he was out the door and well down the street before he pinned the order form up with the others in the back room, the workshop where it all came together. _He was…sweet._ Charming. And those eyes had been…

Well, there was a thousand and one things he didn’t know about Klaus, or about his and Astrid’s former relationship (though apparently, they too remained on good terms now). But from what he had been able to tell today, he was already finding it a bit hard to understand why she would have wanted to leave him.

But really, who knew—it was past lunchtime, he could blame such crazy thoughts on his painfully empty stomach, and he pushed the thought well from his mind by the time he stepped out of the shop.

***

The past couple weeks had mercifully flown by, work and other things had kept John luckily busy enough. The one weekend had seen him going over to Mick and Keith’s for a party instead of watching British Bake Off reruns, and the resulting hangover had kept him loafing around for much of the following Sunday. The party itself was at least something to do, though they hung out with a weird lot, those two. The not-entirely-spacious flat had been crammed with chattering, laughing people, the music pounding loudly over it all. 

At least they hadn’t been stingy with the drinks, John had helped himself to that in no time at all. It turned out that Mick hardly needed much in his own skinny body before he got completely pissed, and spent much of the time accosting nearly everyone there in a very loud voice before crawling into Keith’s lap and about passing out.

John had found himself seated on the couch next to a doleful-looking man working steadily away on a beer but making no attempt to join any of the madness all around them. “Haven’t seen you here before,” He said to John after a minute of silence. “Where did they find you, then?”

“I, uh…live next door. This is the first time I’ve been over here.”

“You didn’t have anything better to do? And you live next to these two? Christ, poor bastard.”

“Oh, Charlie, let me sit down a minute.” They’d been interrupted by a tall, rangy blonde with a thick accent, who waved a hand with long, lacquered nails to get Charlie to budge along. She was carrying a drink too, nearly tottering in her high heels, and Charlie had surrendered his place with good grace.

“Steady on, love. Don’t throw up again, Anita.”

“I won’t! Go and find Shirley, would you?”

Charlie had slipped away, and Anita had plopped down next to John. “You’re a new one. Did you and Mick used to fuck or something?”

John about choked on his drink at that. “I… _no._ Why the hell would you think that?”

She gave a breezy sort of shrug. “I used to fuck Keith, you know. But that’s all in the past now, anyway. Let me see your hand.”

_“What?”_

She smelled like some kind of strange perfume, that combined with the rest of the atmosphere had made his head swim a little, and he hadn’t felt like putting up too much of a fight. She’d taken his hand and unfurled it, palm-side up, and expertly ran a finger along the lines there.

“Mm. Well, that’s interesting.”

“What’s so interesting about it?”

“Your life line’s long. Faint, though. You ought to relax more. Meditate.”

An ill-fated yoga class had actually been where John had met George, years ago. He’d been grateful for that one hour of scrambling around on a tiny mat with his arse stuck in the air and his legs bent in weird positions for meeting his mate only, and had never done anything of the sort since then.

“Yeah…sure. Like that’s gonna happen.”

Anita pressed on like she hadn’t heard him. “There’s a lot of emotions here. Passion. But you need someone to share it with.”

John gave a sort of dry chuckle at that. “Could have told you that much, dear.”

She eyed him up then, her expression surprisingly shrewd, intense. “You’ll find it.”

He ended up with her tongue in his mouth for a bit after that, but it didn’t really go anywhere else. By the time he stumbled into bed later, his head was pounding away, and something in his heart hurt almost as much. _You’ll find it._

The next week had yielded another surprise when he bumped into a short man with a scrubby beard and small, shifty eyes out in the corridor, clad in a long coat and carrying a cardboard box that rattled disturbingly with each step. When John had almost bashed into him, he’d jumped about a mile in the air and shot him a reproachful look.

“Oi, mind your feet, there!”

“Mind your own damn feet,” John shot back mulishly, only to watch in something like chagrined horror as the little man had stumbled over to the door next to his own flat, the one on the other side instead of Keith and Mick’s. “Hey…are you the new tenant?” He thought he might have heard something about that from the landlord, when they were busy having a row over the water damage in his own flat.

The man had given him a glower. “Who wants to know? You’re not with the government, are you?”

“No, I’m bloody not! I live here, for god’s sake.”

He had been eyed up with the deepest mistrust. “All right…you can call me Alex, that’s all you have to know. Just don’t give me any trouble, is that clear?”

And he’d scuttled into his own flat then, banging the door shut behind him—John caught the scraping of many locks afterwards. Since then, he’d overheard strange, machine-like sounds, as if he were building something over there. He had little to no clue just what the hell was going on, but the disturbance was giving his other next door-neighbors a run for their money.

“He’s fucking barmy,” Keith told him once, when they were collecting their respective post downstairs in the lobby. “I think he’s building a bomb.”

“You’re probably right. He’s going to send us all sky-high in a couple of weeks.”

“Only if we’re lucky,” Keith had joked, with a quick, shifty smile—it transformed his face for a moment. But no such luck yet—whatever Alex was up to, he hadn’t yet caused the building to explode, and so John was left with pounding going on on one side of him as well as the other…of a different sort.

To cap matters off, the bookshop had survived to go on another month—but not by an impressive amount. There wasn’t any room in the budget yet to hire any more staff, but Cyn and some of the others volunteered to take on a few more hours until there was. “You’re the top of the class,” He told them, and he meant it…but a bigger part of him worried a little. They’d have to start drumming up business a little.

Cyn had to run things for him while he was gone this weekend—because after months of hemming and hawing and planning and readjusting, Ringo and Maureen were finally going to be married. The stag do the previous Friday night had been quite the event, so much so that John couldn’t remember much of it the next day, but now it was all down to the line. _This_ Friday night, they had gone through the whole song and dance at the little church before gathering at Capriccio’s, a nice Italian place, for the dinner afterwards.

Maureen’s side of the family was a rather quiet bunch, nice enough—she was an only child, like Ringo, and both sets of parents seemed about blown away by the going-ons. Elsie, Ringo’s mum, was already starting to dab at her eyes. “She’s a sweet old girl, but she’s going to drive me batty,” Ringo had confessed to John and George back at the church.

George had rolled his eyes skyward. “My mum did the same thing when Peter got married, but by weddings two and three then, she was completely jaded. Expect she’d fall asleep if I ever had one.”

“George, your mum loves you, now shut up. And Ringo’s mum loves her little boy,” John needled his friend, giving Ringo an elbow to the ribs. “Excuse me if I don’t bring my own handkerchief along, I’ll try to keep my tears under control.”

“Shut _up,_ John. God, a wedding’s a lot of trouble.”

 But John didn’t want to hear much of Ringo’s griping. It was all right for him, tomorrow would be a day of nerves and anxiety, yet happiness at the end of it—but for John, it would take all of his effort to not try and hide behind one of the pews the whole time. Tomorrow, after all, would be the first time he was going to see Stuart in person in months. The very first time.

He was jittery his own self, just thinking about it. Sitting here in the restaurant at one big table while family and friends of the bride and groom talked excitedly around him, the reality of the situation was slowly starting to sink in. At the least, he was prepared for it, it wasn’t like one of those awful encounters where you ran into your ex with old pajama bottoms and a ratty T-shirt on when you were out buying ciggies and crisps at the corner store, but the dreaded anticipation of it was starting to gnaw a hole in his stomach.

There was delicious-smelling food in front of him, decent enough wine, happy people surrounding him—and something in him felt like he was observing it from a distance, behind a glass wall, as if peering through a window at a crowded street below. A witness, but not an active participant. His fingers drummed the table restlessly, staring at the brick wall of the restaurant for a while before he felt a light touch on his arm.

“John?” George, sounding faintly concerned. “You all right, there?”

“Yeah, I…yeah. It’s like I’m the one with the pre-wedding nerves, eh? I’m just gonna step outside for a minute.”

He didn’t hear George’s response as he got up and headed outside into the relatively cool night, watching the traffic rumble past on the road. He could have done with a cigarette, he thought, but he’d weaned himself off the habit some time ago. Still, the old urge for a tug of nicotine now resonated in his very bones. The sound of the door swinging open just behind him might not have broken him out of his reprieve by itself, but peeking over at the exiting party sure did.

“Wait a second…hey, I know you, huh? The elusive Paul McCartney, as it were?”

Paul turned around—and thankfully it was him after all, face breaking into a smile. He wasn’t alone either, accompanied by an older gentlemen and a woman peering curiously over at the sudden interruption. “Hey, John! Fancy seeing you here!”

“I do get around,” John said. “We’ve got to stop running into each other like this, though. I’m starting to think it’s more than coincidence.”

He laughed at that, while the woman with him glanced back and forth. “Who’s this, Paul? Friend of yours?”

“Well…I guess you could say that. Dad, Angie, this is John. John, my dad and stepmum.”

“Oh, how lovely!” Angie was the one doing most of the talking, warming right up to John then. “We’ve heard so much about Paul down here in London, you know, but never met any of his friends! Do you teach too?”

John exchanged a quick, fleeting look with Paul over the top of Angie’s head—almost a flicker of a smile, recalling one of their first conversations together. “Er…no. I run a bookshop over in Soho.”

“Wonderful! We’ll have to stop by sometime, Paul, do get us the address—”

Paul’s dad was a thin man starting to lose his hair, and his son didn’t overmuch look like him—perhaps it was in the face a little. But he seemed pleasant enough, coming forward to finally get a word in edgewise over his wife. “It’s good to meet you then, John.”

“Are you here with anyone tonight?” Paul asked curiously, and John gave a shrug.

“Out for rehearsal dinner. One of my best mates is getting married tomorrow.”

They all made congratulatory exclamations at that, almost like John were the one getting married instead, before Angie fixed Paul with a steady, deliberate stare. “Isn’t that fine, Paul? See, _lots_ of young people still get married. I don’t want to keep hearing more and more excuses for much longer.”

“Oh, Ange, please,” Paul sighed, in a tone that implied this was hardly a new conversation. “I haven’t even been settled in a year yet and you expect wedding bells already.”

“Well, not so much that, perhaps, but we thought you might have at least met someone—”

Now _here_ was something interesting. How in the world someone like Paul was apparently single would go down as one of the greater mysteries John had yet to encounter, a development he hadn’t foreseen. But he could certainly relate to meddling family members, and so pulled another face at Paul, and decided to intervene on his behalf.

“I take it Paul’s been busy with a new job and all. They say the education system is going to hell in a hand basket, but I say not if we’ve got more teachers like him around.”

Paul squinted at him, John tipped him a wink—but both the other two swelledl with pride at the compliment to their boy. Paul turned back to them in the next moment, apparently thinking something over. “How about you two go on ahead to the car? I’ll catch up in a minute.”

They were happy enough to head off then, saying goodbye to John and heading around the side of the restaurant where the car park was. Paul waited until they were out of earshot before looking back over at him.

“They seem…nice,” John ventured, not telling a lie either.

“They are…Angie just has a bit of an agenda, clearly,” Paul shook his head.

“Sounds a lot like my aunts. I’ve got four of them, you never hear the end of it. Same kind of shite.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you haven’t settled down yet either? For shame!”

It was a joke, of course, he didn’t know about John’s rather sad romantic history—but his own easy expression must have slipped from his face all the same. “No. No, that’s…never really been for me. Wish me luck for tomorrow, it’s going to be a miserable affair.”

“Generally speaking, I always thought weddings were sort of the opposite of that. Could be just me, though.”

“Overall, sure. Bit of a damper on things when your ex is around too, I guess.”

“Oh…you’re not kidding. I’m sorry, John. I s’pose you’re not really…friends, then.”

“No. Not really.”

“God, y’know, it’s really none of my business at all.” Paul appeared guilty now, face visible in the glow over head from the streetlight. “Forget I ever said anything.”

“You’re fine,” John assured him—somehow, it wasn’t so bad talking to Paul about it as it was even Ringo and George, perhaps because he had no prior knowledge of any of it. “But…yeah. It could get a little ugly.”

“Good luck,” Paul told him, and he sounded sincere. “I’ll send positive vibes into the universe for you tomorrow.”

“Cheers,” John said gloomily. “Well…your parents are probably waiting, and I’d better get back in there before someone thinks I’ve gone and thrown myself into traffic.”

“Is that a possibility?”

“Eh. Give me a day or two, I haven’t made my mind up yet.”

“Stay safe out there, would you?”

John nodded, turned to go—but Paul spoke up again before he could. “Go ahead and text me at the reception if you need a lifeline. Or someone to call the ambulance.”

He paused, surveyed him over his shoulder. “I don’t believe I’ve got your number there, son.”

“Well, we can fix that.”

So by the time John headed back inside, it was with a little more of a lightness in his step—perhaps somewhere in his heart too. Lord knew he was going to need what he could get in order to endure tomorrow.

***

“Oh my god, I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Would you please cut the shite?” George snapped from his place by the mirror, where he was adjusting his tie. “You made it through the morning, didn’t you?”

From his perch over on a chair by the window, John and some of the other groomsmen watched as Ringo paced around the little room in the back of the church. Ringo’s old school friend Rory shook his head, then spoke in a low voice to John.

“We’re going to need a lot of champagne after this.”

“I think we need it _now.”_ And he wasn’t entirely joking—only a short time earlier, they had witnessed the steady trickle of wedding guests entering the chapel, leaving signatures in the official book and jabbering away. John hadn’t seen him out there in the crowd yet, but he knew he’d be here (he’d double-checked with Mo about the official confirmation. "Yes, John. Are you going to be all right?").

“I _am_ going to be sick,” Ringo moaned, and John took it upon himself to bounce to his feet, steadying his friend firmly by clasping his shoulders.

“Come now, my good man, get ahold of yourself! Get a grip! All the planning and the waiting is finally over, the only thing that’s left now is to go and do it. Mo loves you, you love her. I’m sure she looks lovely, so you needn’t worry about people gawking at you instead for too long. But you’ve got to pull yourself together, understand?”

Ringo stared wildly at him for a few more moments, like a man being pulled from the trenches of war, before he swallowed once and nodded jerkily, composing himself a bit. “Yeah, I…Jesus, I get it. You’re right.”

“Nice speech,” George said sardonically, and John shrugged.

“Should’ve been me who was the best man instead of you, chum.”

“Hey!”

“All right…don’t start this again,” Ringo said with a shaky grin. “We went through all of that crap months ago. Let’s all just…get into places or something, OK? You’re all going to lead me to a breakdown.”

Despite the autumn day outside, it was a bit stuffy inside the church, and John was already tugging at his jacket as the wedding party lined up in the back. He was paired off with one of Maureen’s friends Polly, a nice enough girl who gave him a smile when she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. He tried to return it, but it might have looked like he was grimacing instead—his own palms were starting to feel more than a little sweaty. For more than one person here, it was the end of a line.

The parents had already filed down the aisle, the vicar who’d be officiating, the somewhat white-faced groom, and with the music still swelling, the wedding party was on the hook now. John straightened up, watching the other pairs slowly march down to where all of them were waiting, and forced himself not to scan the crowd for anyone. _Eyes forward, Johnny._

He even managed to do the same thing during the procession down the aisle, though he probably cajoled poor Polly along at a faster clip than what was custom. He kept his eyes trained on Ringo instead, pulling a quick face at him to perhaps lighten them both up a little bit before taking his place off to the side with the other groomsmen and watching George join them.

The church was decorated beautifully, for all the hassle Maureen and her parents had given George and his assistants, John didn’t see how they could be any bit displeased that they had opted to go for him instead of some so-called professional. Maureen’s bridesmaids were in purple, and so the violets and other purple flowers dotting the pews and the windows matched with theme, accented with trailing cream ribbons and paired with the bouquet the bride was to carry. Not always one to notice such things, even John had to gaze around the interior of the church for a moment, not unimpressed.

Even still, when the assembled crowd got to their feet for the bride to come in, he made his eyes stay focused frontward. On her father’s arm, Maureen came walking down the aisle, all but floating in her white dress and beaming bashfully at all the eyes on her—and she did look radiant. Sneaking a glance over at Ringo proved he was grinning away too, as if all his nerves had been forgotten, and John certainly hoped that they had.

When the music came to a halt and the vicar told them all they could be seated, John finally broke down and had to take one quick sweep of the assembly. For a few heart-pounding moments, he thought maybe Stu hadn’t come after all—and then he saw him. Fourth row on the right. Wearing a jacket the color of charcoal, dark hair pushed back. He started to turn his head, as if sensing the gaze on him, and John quickly snapped his attention back to the ceremony going on.

Before they even got to the vows, Elsie was notably sniffling away in the front row, her husband Harry patting her arm. George quickly stole a look back at John, the two of them fighting off grins for a second—but standing up here, in front of everyone, it felt more uncomfortable in here than ever. Stuart wasn’t going to be watching him, there was a clear focal point here, but it felt impossible to completely shake the notion off as the vicar went on about love and devotion and cherishing one another.

Elsie was in complete tears by the time it came to say “I do.” The rings were exchanged, husband and wife were proclaimed—and over the applause, John stuck his fingers in his mouth to sharply whistle his own approval. He could shake the anxiety off long enough to smile, to let the happiness blossom in him at seeing Ringo so happy. As they proceeded out of the church in another swell of music and rice being tossed, Stuart wasn’t even on his mind for a stretch of glorious time.

“It was hot in there,” George muttered to him as they filed outside into the brilliant sunshine. “Mark my words—outdoor wedding is the way to go.”

“It all sounds very nice until it starts to rain,” John pointed out. “You’d be better off keeping it indoors unless—” But he cut himself off then—a familiar figure was winding his way through the crowd, and he wasn’t about to try and deal with that right now.

“…let’s go find Rings, shall we?”

The rest of the afternoon went by in something of a blur—they posed for picture after picture with the rest of the wedding party just outside the estate where the reception was at. The guests would already be inside in one of the ballrooms, munching on appetizers and having drinks, and frankly, John was thinking it was about time for that.

As far as he was concerned, there was one truly good photo that came out of the whole ordeal—one of his own self carrying Ringo bridal-style across the grass, George in hot pursuit just behind them.

“Congratulations, Rings,” He told his friend then, and clapped him on the shoulder. “You know I’m being serious, don’t you?”

“Oh John, for fuck’s sake…c’mere.” They shared a long, firm embrace before everyone departed back to the ballroom for the dinner, and in that one shining moment, things felt nigh on perfect—and they might have stayed that way.

The ballroom was something out of a magazine, all dim lighting from cut-glass lamps above, wide windows that looked out over the grounds beyond, London proper just a line in the distance. While most of the floor was carpeted, a hardwood block was left on one end of the room for all the dancing. This was where the bride and groom swept onto the floor for the first dance, and John jokingly swayed in time to the music, taking special care to bump into George with his hip every so often.

They danced as a wedding party, Ringo and Maureen got to share one apiece with their parents, and John helped himself to more than a little to drink during the interlude. By the time everyone filed back into their seats, he was feeling slightly on the verge of tipsy, and seated up front with the rest of the group, he was suddenly seized with the compulsion to get up and speak. Rapping his fork smartly to his champagne glass, he got to his feet.

He had, of course, plenty of funny stories about Ringo in his back pocket, ever since they had met quite some time ago when Ringo was working part-time as a lorry driver, and wasn’t shy at all in pulling them out.

“But that’s not why we’re here, is it?” John concluded finally, letting the laughter die down before he pressed on, holding his champagne glass in hand. “Oh, yeah, we’re here for some fantastic stories about Rings—but to wish him and Mo well too. Weddings are a dreadful thing, usually, people promising fidelity forever when in eleven months he’ll be having an affair with the cycling instructor at the gym and she’ll be packing her bags to go back to her mum in Surrey—”

Uncomfortable murmurs and glances rippled through the room at that—Maureen, who was happy and pink-cheeked, shot Ringo a pointed glare, but he was all but burying his face in his hands for a moment. Under the table, from next to him, George gave John a sharp kick, and he just barely reacted to it with a small sound before realizing the hole he was digging himself into—and quickly foisted a fake smile on his face instead, thinking he’d better wrap things up fast.

“But, er…anyway, that’s  _sometimes_ how it goes, but we’re dealing with a clear and obvious exception here. Lovely couple, great friends. We all want nothing but the best for you. So Ringo, Maureen…here’s to you.”

He tipped his glass, and wished it burned a little more on the way down.

Since then, he’d wasted little time in supplying himself with even more alcohol, effectively quashing George’s working theory that he’d been drinking too much  _before_ the reception. Watching him throw back a glass, George shook his head.

“Well, that’s good to know then…so that completely fucking ridiculous speech was all you, in no addled state of mind. Fantastic. If I ever get hitched, you’re getting a muzzle.”

“Oh, shut up,” John said heavily. “Christ, I already feel bad enough as it is—”

“Do you? Listen, I know you’re all weird because Stu’s here—”

He was spared either John swearing at him or frantically trying to change the subject by a cloud of Maureen’s relatives approaching him at the table, asking him if he had been the one to provide the beautiful flowers for the wedding and here too. George gave his usual, shyer, craggier smile at that, momentarily diverted because he had to talk about decorations—all supplied by his flower shop.

Ringo and Maureen were making their rounds, greeting guests at the table and in a state of marital bliss—John _did_ feel like a heel for the comments he’d let slip, but he didn’t think approaching them now to try and save face and apologize would be his best bet. He went up and got some more food, and by the time he returned, George and everyone else had gone. Well, fine—he wouldn’t mind a few moments alone.

An idea suddenly struck him then, and he fished his phone out of his pocket, bringing up a new message.

_u better have meant it when u said i could text. made it through the wedding. it’s OK to drink alone at the reception, right??_

He sent the message off to Paul, wondering if he’d hear anything back. He didn’t have much time to ponder it, though—from just beside him, John heard that agonizingly familiar voice, as if from out of a dream. “Hello, John. Can I…can I sit for a minute?”

He froze. Paused for a moment. John swallowed hard, once, and forced himself to do the bravest thing he could think of right then—and look up. “’Lo, Stu.” One painful beat, where his heart skittered in his chest, and he forced himself to go on. “Yeah. Um. Go ahead.”

Stuart sat down slowly in the seat next to him, keeping a slight distance in between them. That was good, and it was also terrible. John dared to study him, the new haircut swept back from his face was different from the mop he had known during his time with him, but the long eyelashes were ever the same, his eyes just as piercing. Right now, they looked almost anxious.

He had his fingers knotted together, those long, clever fingers that could create stunning art and had once touched John like he was something beautiful too. No one had done that to him before or since.

“It’s…been a while.”

Holy God, but the lump was already starting to well in John’s throat. He wouldn’t let it past, _couldn’t_ let it. “It has, yeah. It’s the same old shite with me, you know. Bookshop’s still getting on.”

He could do this. They could exchange pleasantries about what they were up to for a few minutes and then call it a night. No one could say he hadn’t tried.

“That’s great to hear,” Stu said, and it seemed like he meant it. “Did you ever get that back door fixed? It used to screech like the world was ending every time you opened it.”

He remembered. “I did, yeah.”

“I saw Cyn not that long ago at the Castillo, maybe…she told you? I’m still painting, some of my work’s going to be featured in the next instillation there.” He was speaking quickly, as if trying to get it over with, but the note of pride was still detectable in his voice. Something in it made John’s stomach churn a little—was he happy for him? Yes. But he couldn’t be happy _with_ him anymore, and that seemed to make all the difference. Maybe it was the drink, his wounded heart, everything and all of it, but the spiteful side of him rose up in abject defiance to the muted, dull attitude he had taken thus far.

“I suppose fucking one of its main art dealers is useful, yeah?”

At this, the glow was wiped right off of Stuart’s face in an instant. “John…god, it’s not like that. And Klaus, Astrid’s ex, manages the place, he’s got to sign off on everything, and you’ll notice there aren’t any hard feelings there.”

 “There’s no hard feelings here either,” John said flatly, untruthfully, taking another swallow of his drink.

“I hope not. I think…I think you two would like each other, John. Maybe we could have you round to our new place sometime—”

This gave John sudden, abrupt pause. “Your…new place? What, did you move in together somewhere?”

Stuart nodded. “Yeah, we did. To be, uh…closer to the gallery and all.”

So he had left the flat John and Stu had once shared—perhaps that was for the best. He’d never have been able to set foot inside it, not now, not so soon. But had he and Astrid really moved in somewhere else together? Already? Stuart was talking again, moving on ahead.

“Or maybe not…maybe not so soon for you. But…I was thinking about asking you something else anyway. I thought maybe you might like to come to the gallery. To the exhibit’s opening. You saw some of those paintings when they were only sketches on paper.”

Yes, John had—and he’d told him they were going to be something brilliant. He could hardly imagine anything as awful as standing within the smooth, blank white walls of the gallery with the studio lights beaming down on him and all those other art snobs around, the fruits of that labor displayed for all to see that he could take no part in.

“I don’t know if it…counts for anything anymore. Maybe not. But it would mean a lot to me if you came. I want to start over, John. Really.”

Those two words pricked at John’s already-wounded pride tonight, the hurt welling in him like a poison, and he almost spat the next part out. “Yeah, well, maybe I’m not really interested in ‘starting over,’ Stu. I mean, Jesus, d’you really think I’d be OK with pretending like we were only just friends? Maybe you’re fine with forgetting everything, but I’m not.”

Stuart flinched as if he’d been smacked round the face for a moment. “John…please…it’s not forgetting everything, I don’t want you cut out of my life completely, all right? I just think…it’s time to move on.”

“I have,” John informed him, but he was thinking of Stu and his glossy new clothes and the shiny new flat he lived in with his artistic girlfriend—and something came bubbling up. “If you must know, I’ve been seeing someone myself. For about a month now.”

The notable shock (maybe envy of his own?) in Stu’s expression caused such a surge of savage satisfaction that John couldn’t take it back now. Not for a minute.

“Oh, you…you have? John, that’s fab—I mean, I had hoped…I’d hoped you would.”

“Yeah, he’s a great bloke. Funny, like.”

“What’s he do, then?”

Perhaps mercifully, John was spared having to go into any more detail by the arrival of a startled-looking George returning back to the table, almost dropping his own plate of food.

“Stuart! I…how are you? How are things getting on?”

His eyes darted back and forth between the two of them, but Stuart wrenched his gaze from John to fix his best attempt at a smile on George. “Hi, George. We’re, uh…we’re fine. Catching up. I was telling John about the art exhibit opening in two weeks, if you all might like to come. But Klaus told me you already knew about that.”

Despite his swirling thoughts, like a plane going through turbulence and just as liable to spin out of control, John’s attention was snagged at that. He twisted his head around to peer up at George, who for some reason…come off as a tad guilty. Furtive.

“Did he now?”

George must have sensed John’s tension, because he exhaled sharply before he spoke. “Yes, he did. He came into the shop and ordered flowers, John, that’s the whole story. And by the way…” He gave Stu a quick smile. “Thank you for that tip-off.”

“What the hell are you talking about? What have you been up to?” John demanded, and Stu spoke up.

“Klaus wanted to get flowers, I recommended George’s place. That’s it.”

But that wasn’t it—if this Klaus had been talking to George about the gallery, then they had been talking about Stu, which probably meant they were talking about John too. He had no idea what George might have said, but just thinking about it made his gut twist.

“George…can you give us a moment? Please?”

It looked like George longed to say more, but he held himself off. Stu seemed disappointed to see him go. “You’re more than welcome to stop by if you ever want to, George. I hope you know that.”

When it was just the two of them left alone again, the talk and the music of the other guests about entirely in the background, Stuart leaned forward a little, closing up some of the space between them. “John, I need you to understand that I want you to be happy. That that’s what I’ve _always_ wanted, honestly, no matter…how other things changed. If you don’t want to come to the exhibit, I understand. You could bring your new boyfriend though, if you wanted to. I’d love to meet him. I’d love to…make things work again.”

He was talking in that low, intense voice so often used when a subject meant a lot to him—John knew it well. A deep, indescribable longing had opened in his chest like a pit, one that there appeared to be only one way to fill.

“Y’know, that’s not a bad idea. Maybe I will bring him along, he’d probably like it. I think he’s got some weird connection to—oh, what’s his name—that Charles Millet.”

“Millet?” Now he had Stu’s attention—every artist worth his salt knew the name of the French painter. “Does he really?”

“…yeah.” Change of pace—he didn’t like where this was going, and it was clearly time for a bail-out. He patted at his trousers pocket then, as if suddenly hearing the phone there buzz, and pulled it out to check the screen. “Hold on—it’s Mimi. You might remember how she gets if you ignore her calls—”

If Stu could tell he was searching for a way out, he didn’t try and fight it. But there was no mistaking the crestfallen look on his face, how he nodded once and let John go—and he seized the opportunity, scuttling out to the quiet, carpeted corridor outside where he could sink to the floor and hide behind a large potted plant, tucked out of the way of the main hallway.

His hands were nearly shaking. To say that hadn’t gone well would be a bit of an understatement. What was Stu playing at, trying to invite him to some fancy art gallery opening? What had _he_ been thinking saying he had a boyfriend he could bring along to it? If he had really wanted to go, he likely could have rustled up a date for just that one night—now he had to conjure up someone with who he had fake history with.

Oh, the answer was simple. He just wasn’t going to go in the first place. But a part of him reflected on that expression on Stuart’s face, that glimmer of something like envy when he’d mentioned a new person in his life…perhaps…

He checked his phone, only to see that Paul had texted him some time back, and then sent another message about ten minutes ago. The first one:

_i’d say it’s OK to drink alone. best kind of company sometimes._

And then the second:

_are you alive?? hope the lack of response = having a good time not jumping headlong into traffic._

John gave a faint snort at that, but texted him back.

s _till hanging in there. but tomorrow’s hangover will be bloody awful._

A delay of nothing but typing bubbles…and then a link to a page with home remedies for hangovers was sent along.

_lots of water + dry toast. painkillers if the headache’s bad enough. try to sleep it off tonight and thank me later._

It still felt like a giant kind of weight was pressing down on John, a new sort of weariness seeping into his bones, but he almost managed something of a smile before he thanked Paul. His eyes felt like they hurt, like there was something raw and stinging in them, and though a part of him very much wanted to go outside, find a cab, and slouch off home, he would force himself to get through a bit more of the night. For Ringo, at least, who deserved better.

By the time he staggered back into his flat later, it was well past one in the morning. Thankfully, all his neighbors must have been settled down for the night, and there were no other noises to go along with the thudding starting in his head as he undressed, letting the fancy clothes hit the floor before crawling as he was into bed. Pepper came to join him before too long, and John was left alone in the dark for a while, thoughts racing, heart aching.

He had finally seen Stu, and it hadn’t gone at all well—to say the least. He had a few options facing him now. Behind door number one was bailing on Stu’s art gallery invitation altogether, claiming something had come up, forgetting about it. Easy enough.

Option number two was finding a date, or someone to pose as his date. Someone he could show off for an evening, make it clear to Stu just how happy and how over him he was. This was by far the more tempting choice, but he’d never find anyone daft enough to play along with it for even one night.

Number three could be that he showed up solo, and claimed that his date had canceled on him tonight, gotten sick or something. Not unthinkable, but he didn’t know if he could do it alone.

It was all hopeless anyway, John thought grimly as his throbbing head still played hell with him. He just wouldn’t go at all, and that was that. And for that half-moment in between consciousness and crashing into a deep sleep, it honestly felt like his mind was completely made up.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they say good things are worth waiting for...i hope that applies here. i know it's been a while since my last update, life and other crap got the best of me. when i could finally get my act together, this chapter was a lot of fun to write, and i hope that it shows. many thanks for all the patience and understanding, and for reading too! <3

Come morning, John woke up with what had to be the worst headache he’d experienced in a long time—it felt more like he’d be ran over with a truck, if the truck had also reversed and sat on top of him for a while. His tongue felt almost leaden, stuck to the roof of his dry mouth for a moment before he could unstick it, and he could do no more but simply lie there in a suspended fog of misery for a short while. A soft weight landed on the bed next to him, Pepper checking to see if he was awake and would come feed him yet.

Memories from the previous night came slowly easing back into John’s mind and he stifled a groan into his pillow as he yanked the covers up over his head, a means to hide from the world. God, what he had said at the reception…and then to Stuart too…yes, staying in here for the rest of all entirety, at least, seemed like a wise course of action.

But the headache was too much to ignore. Painkillers were in order, as Paul had advised—but first, he had to actually get out of bed. He was just beginning to think about easing a foot out from under the covers when there came what sounded like a power tool being used from next door, on Alex’s side of things.

“Bloody  _hell!”_ He swore aloud, tangling himself in the covers, the noise sounding like it was piercing right into his skull instead—would it be too much to commit a murder in a state like this? No one could say it wasn’t justified.

The noise went on, and John gritted his teeth and forced himself to get up, get dressed, and shuffle into the kitchen. Pepper trotted after him, meowing away, but he couldn’t even deal with that until he set about curing his ailments. He brought out the whole works—the medication, dry toast, and drank two glasses full of water before he finally paused. Mercifully, the sound from next door had stopped, but his left eye seemed to have developed a kind of tic. Of course.

There was a knock at the door and John fought the urge to groan aloud, contemplating acting like he wasn’t here—but if it happened to be Alex, well, he didn’t want to miss the opportunity to shout at him. In fact, that was the only person it could be, and so John stomped over to the door and flung it open.

_“Yeah?”_

It wasn’t Alex standing there at all, but Keith, who didn’t look wholly taken aback by John’s less-than-pleasant greeting…though he did give him a strange look for his haggard appearance. “Take it easy, mate, it’s too early for all that.”

“That’s exactly why it’s perfect for that,” John grumbled back, hovering in the doorway. “Can I…help you with something?”

“Well…” Now Keith looked hesitant, rubbing at his jaw. “I was going to ask you for a favor, but you seem to be in that delicate state known as ‘completely fucking hungover.’”

“I’m not…listen…” But John was squinting, rubbing at his eyes behind his glasses—did the light out in the corridor have to be so damn bright?

Keith raised his eyebrows. “I’m not a stranger to what it looks like. Black coffee, and tons of it. It’ll help.”

“…thanks,” John grunted, then sighed. “Well…while you’re here. What is it you want to ask me?”

“Mick and I are going out of town for a weekend coming up—the 7th? We could always leave our dog Jack with a friend or something, but as you’re closer and it’d be easier for him, well…we were wondering if maybe you wouldn’t mind looking after him. Just for a couple days.”

 John looked blankly at him for a moment, and Keith hurried on like his silence was a bad sign. “’Course, I get it, you don’t have to—”

 “No, uh…no. I don’t mind. I can watch him.” A dull part of him acknowledged that that was the weekend of his birthday, but the prospect seemed decidedly unimportant, if not downright depressing.

 Maybe it was his slightly addled state of mind, but John didn’t really have it in him to say no. He could let out a dog a few times a day, surely. At the apparent twist, Keith’s whole face brightened.

 “Great, that’s…thanks, John! We’ll leave you a note or something, but really, he’s easy, just feed him, have him out a couple times a day—Mick usually takes him on a run in the morning.”

 John’s distaste for the idea must have registered on his face, because Keith gave a small, knowing sort of grin. “You don’t have to do that. I like to have a lie-in myself. Just make sure he gets what he needs, y’know?”

“Yeah, I know. I don’t mind doing it.”

“Cheers. I’ll let Mick know, he’ll probably wanna talk to you then too.”

“Sensational.” But he’d better not get the idea to come hurrying over in the next hour or so—John wasn’t in _that_ generous of a mood. He bid Keith goodbye and then headed back inside, finally feeding Pepper before getting the coffee on. From over on the counter, his phone gave a buzz, and he reached out to check it.

  _hi john. it was good to see you. i hope you’re doing OK after last night. tomorrow is the last call for tickets to the gallery opening. it’d be fab if you came._

John had deleted Stu’s number ages ago, as per his friends’ request. But even without the name there, there was only one person it could have come from. There was something about it, the sheer unexpectedness of it (and how many times before had John woken up to a ‘good morning!’ text if Stu had been the first one out the door), how genuine it seemed to be…it didn’t exactly improve his mood so much as twist it around some more, tangling around his heart and squeezing tight.

And how much he missed him. Stu didn’t know, he couldn’t know. Perhaps John was just some kind of glutton for punishment, or fancied digging his own grave even deeper—but he steeled himself, and then he replied to the message. The adrenaline rush was already real enough at that, it didn’t feel like he’d be needing the coffee (barring its remedial effect as a hangover cure) much at all.

_yeah i can come._

He all but paced around the tiny area of the kitchen while he waited for a response, lunging for the phone when it buzzed again.

_great! i’ll email over the tix. bring your date!_

Well. Now he’d really gone and done it, hadn’t he?

At this hour, and the day after his wedding to boot, Ringo would be presumably unavailable for a chat over the phone. Unfortunately, this left him with only one person in on much of the saga who he could confide in, but he had to talk to _someone—_ still, he had to brace himself for the verbal beating he was about to get.

“So you’ve got to… _what?”_ George demanded over the phone after John rang him, and he groaned as he sank down on his couch, running his free hand through his hair.

“I’ve got to get a date for this gallery opening thing—and like, not just some rando out of the back alley, like someone gorgeous.”

“What the fuck did you say to Stu?”

“Well, what the hell  _should_  I have told him? That I miss him? That I’m still alone and I bloody hate it? Shit, George, I panicked.”

There was silence on the other end—George must have sensed the sudden harshness in John’s tone, and then there came a long sigh. “Why don’t you just, I don’t know, skip the whole thing and don’t go at all then? Say you’re sick or something. Say your cat’s sick.”

“No, no…I don’t wanna do that,” John muttered, rubbing at his temples. “I’ve got to really show that I’ve moved on and all, you know? That I’m blissfully happy. And Stu can see it for himself and then he’ll…”

But he trailed off of that—because then he’d what? Become wildly jealous and heartsick at the sight of John with another man, perhaps realize what a mistake he’d made, and that he’d belonged with him all along?

Just one random thought.

“This is a level of bullshit I can’t condone, you know that,” George said waspishly, and John gave an eye roll his friend couldn’t see.

“Spare me the lecture. Like you wouldn’t like to show up Pattie at some big social event with some even hotter girl there with you.”

“No, I wouldn’t! John, honestly, where in the world would you even find someone willing to go along with this whole thing? Pose as your date for a night?”

“Well, what if…I dunno. There’s gotta be someone who’d do it, right? I could pay them handsomely in leftover Bagel Bites.”

“And who could turn that down? You’d have to find someone mad…who also happens to be hot.”

“It’s not a totally foreign concept, when you put it like that.”

“John…you really worry me sometimes.”

“Well…you’ll come too, right? Stu sent four tickets. You could bring a date.”

“Hilarious. We both know how that looks on my front too. Why don’t you have Ringo and Mo along?”

“I just thought—you know, apparently you’re great mates with this Klaus chappie now, telling him all sorts of things—”

“We spoke _once.”_

But John wouldn’t let things go until he had George’s promise to at least consider it—if he was going to be stuck in something of a fake relationship, he wanted one more person there who could be in touch with reality too. Even George, prickly as he was sometimes, would be good to have along.

Yet this didn’t solve his other, more pressing problem. If he was going to really dazzle Stu, he had to have someone that could be shown off, and didn’t _mind_ being blatantly shown off. And no, he couldn’t just pick up a date for the night and call it square—this had to be someone who could convey being committed to, devoted to, hell, just about besotted with. It had to be like that.

John wisely refrained from mentioning any of this to Cyn the next day at work, as they were both setting up the shop. She asked how the wedding had gone, and he had deflected any probing questions with the usual mumbling about how it had been “fine” and “absolutely sporting.” Even her gentle inquiry about wondering how seeing Stu again was didn’t sting so much, not when he was formulating something of a plan.

He could get him back. He had never been so sure of anything in his life that he and Stuart had belonged together, and that wasn’t something he could give up on. After months of wallowing in a depression about it, seeking some kind of action provided a fresh outlook on things, and it was with a sense of purpose that he went about shelving the new books today.

An unexpected but not unpleasant surprise arrived at the end of the day in the form of Paul himself arriving at the bookshop, bag slung over his shoulder. “I just thought I’d better check on you after this weekend…survived it, then?”

“Only just,” John pulled a mock-grimace.

“Hopefully you’re done with weddings for a bit then. My brother’s is next month, but I don’t think I’ll have such an…interesting time of it.”

“My best advice: drink through it. Text me if you need support.”

Paul laughed, and then went to poke through the bookshelves—by the time he left, he had two new purchases in hand. “They might be all I get up to this weekend—fascinating life I’m living.”

“Can’t be any more noneventful than mine will be. Make it a better one, mate!”

But he was hardly kidding about his own state of affairs. It was his birthday, sure, but he didn’t think he’d be doing anything special for it and the thought was a touch sobering more than anything else. Spotting a couple walking a dog on his journey home reminded him that he’d foolishly agreed to mind his neighbors’ pet for a couple days, a prospect that wasn’t uplifting—but he might as well. It seemed to be one more joke the universe had set up for him that he’d walked right into.

 ***

In his and his boyfriend’s absence, Mick had left behind a highly-detailed note for John about everything he had to do to take care of their dog. Already in possession of a spare key they’d given him, by the time John let himself into the flat, Mick and Keith had already been gone for hours, and Jack was lying in the kitchen with his head resting sadly on his paws. When he heard John come in, he had let out a yip and bounded over, evidently overcome with excitement to see someone.

“Don’t think you can get chummy with me just because your dads are gone,” John warned him. “I still haven’t forgotten that time where Pep got out and you chased him down the stairs.”

He had let him out for a walk, given him his dinner, and then been fully prepared to leave him here and head next door to his own flat. “Well, cheers then,” He told Jack, and made for the door. As he was closing it behind him to lock it, he overheard it then—the skittering sound of the dog following him, a prolonged pause, and then a whine as he scratched beseechingly on the other side.

“…listen, I’m sorry, but I can’t!” John insisted. “I’ve got a cat, you’ll only want him to use him as a toy. Hardly fair to him. You’ll be OK, I swear.”

Another pitiful, desperate whine, and John heaved a groan. “Oh, god…you know what, fine! Fucking hell. But when Pep up and leaves me for this, I’ll know who to blame.”

And so he acquired a dog. John had hauled his bed over, enough food to see him through the weekend, and a couple toys so perhaps he wasn’t quite so interested in using Pepper as one. In any case, Jack just seemed happy to be with someone at all—though the cat was more than a little miffed by the presence of their new guest. John spent a decent amount of time trying to coax him out from under the bed. But while his own pet snubbed him, clearly punishing him for the intruder, John still had company in the form of Jack sitting by him as he watched TV—he wasn’t such a bad dog, really, he determined, and it wasn’t his fault that his owners were insufferable.

“Poor bloke. I bet you’ve had to witness some horrors.”

Jack didn’t venture an opinion either way, but John caught him curled up by the door later, as if waiting for Mick or Keith to walk back in.

The next day, the day before John’s birthday, was a clear, crisp sort of autumn one, bordering on the truly beautiful. The near-permanent drizzle that held sway over London this time of year had relented for one occasion, and after mulling it over for a bit, John decided that he might as well make the most of it. He found the leash for Jack and clipped it on his collar, the dog’s tail already wagging excitedly at the prospect of a walk.

“Come on, then. I’ll indulge ya.”

They went for a brisk walk down the road, and there was something about the fresh air outside that had John in something of a good mood. Yes, tomorrow would be sort of quietly painful, but for right now, he could enjoy just the simple contentment of being here. Jack was certainly thankful for it, pausing to sniff at things but otherwise trotting gamely along by John’s side.

His feet carried him to a nearby park, walking down the winding pathway through the grass. Other people were taking advantage of the nice day, some lying on blankets with books out or earbuds in, others going on jogs or pushing baby prams, a small group playing football in an open area. Jack seemed rather interested in that, and John had to steer him away and look for somewhere he could sit down for a minute.

There was an unoccupied bench nearby, and he opted to plop down on it, halfway wishing he had a book of his own to peruse. As it was, he had the earbuds for his phone, and was content to just loop the end of Jack’s leash securely around his hand as the dog lay down beside him, and then close his eyes to drift in the sunlight for a bit. It was pleasant, for a short while—until there came the sound of quick footsteps nearby, and the dog _lunged,_ causing a relaxed and unsuspecting John to go tumbling from the bench.

He might have smacked right onto the pavement, if Jack hadn’t also collided with his target. As it was, the person instinctively tried to back away from the dog jumping at him, and as such, ran right into John’s stumbling body instead. The two crashed into each other, both of them swearing at the same time, and looking down at who he was currently pinning to the pathway, John about keeled over.

“All right, _now_ it’s official…we’ve got to stop running into each other—er, literally now.” It was Paul, wearing a grey jacket and an expression bright enough to rival the sunshine today. Being so close to a warm, solid body already had John on edge, but the ungainly manner in which he’d arrived here still had him a bit agitated.

“Oh, Christ—sorry, you know, it’s this dog—”

 Jack was dancing around them, trying to lick at Paul’s face, but he couldn’t reach it very well. “Hate to be rude, John, but…could you please get your elbow out of my kidney?”

“Right, too right, ‘course—”

 There was an awkward scrambling as they set about righting themselves, at least sitting up and apart from each other, and Jack seized the opening as he darted forward to greet Paul. To John’s surprise, he looked red-faced from the collision but openly delighted now, laughing as he reached out to rub Jack’s ears and accepting a lick.

“You didn’t say you had a dog before!”

“What? No, he’s—” John sat back on his arse, looking in something like amazement at the scene before him. In Paul’s shoes, he would have sent the dog flying, most likely, and looked like a complete idiot doing it—but here he was, apparently unfazed by the whole thing. Jack’s tail was wagging so fast it was something of a brown blur, and noting the pure joy on Paul’s face, something caused him to change direction mid-sentence.

“…well. Yeah, I mean. You never asked! This is my dog, Jack. Obviously doesn’t have manners.”

Nor was he actually his. Technicalities.   

“Oh, that’s all right…he’s a good dog, isn’t he? ‘Lo, Jack.” Paul was still sitting down and the dog was all but in his lap by now, the two of them had clearly become fast friends.

_Hm. Lucky dog._

“Are you two all right?” A woman walking past eyed them both like they were mad, and John shot her a toothy grin.

“Just peachy. Had a little mishap with my dog here.”

They moved again so they were properly up on the bench this time, sitting side by side as Jack placed his paws in Paul’s lap and he kept petting him. “He’s great. How long have you had him?”

“Oh…a couple months now. I think he’s still adjusting a little.” Quite.

“Is he your only one?”

“Dog, yeah. I’ve got a cat too—Pepper.”

“Pepper and Jack…like pepper jack? The…the cheese, y’know—” Paul’s smile was amused for half a second, before he waved a hand like he was trying to wash it away. “Sorry, sorry, that was stupid—”

“No, no, I mean…amazing discovery,” John said around something of a snort—what he really liked was Paul’s dopey grin that came with it. “I wasn’t really that clever, though.”

“I’d kill to have a pet or two at home. Bloody building doesn’t allow animals.”

“That’s partially why I chose mine,” John admitted, truthfully this time. “Still, I didn’t mean to like…sic the beast on you.”

“He’s obviously a savage,” Paul said with mock-seriousness. He paused to adjust Jack’s collar, from which his tags dangled—and a phone number that definitely wasn’t John’s was on display. He could only hope he didn’t remember his exact number, and quickly decided to change the subject.

“Er…so what brings you ‘round here today? D’you live close?”

“Sort of. I fancied a long run today, is all. How far away are you?”

“Not too far. Jack, er…likes to come here. There’s a nice bakery about a block away, if that’s your sort of thing.”

“It can be. Any special occasion for going there today?”

“Not really…well, I s’pose. Tomorrow’s me birthday, as it happens. Might get a treat.”

“Oh, well—happy early birthday then! Got any big plans tonight for it?”

“No. My family lives farther away and all my mates have probably got better things to do. I’ll probably just toast the new age in with the dog, the cat, and leftover takeout.”

To his slight surprise, Paul didn’t look exactly content with the news. “What? You can’t spend your birthday alone, that’s not on.”

John gave a little shrug. “It’s hardly worth making a fuss over though, at this age. I’m getting closer to thirty and believe you me, I feel it.”

“Still…you could do a little something, couldn’t you?”

“I bet I’ll get my third phone call from my aunt this week for it. _That’s_ special, isn’t it?”

The last call had been by far the most eventful. He could ward off Mimi no longer, and she was insistent that the time had finally arrived for her to make her first official visit to see John’s ‘new’ place. They had settled on a date around two weeks out, the weekend after he’d have to go to Stu’s art gallery exhibit.

“And John, please…I hope the place isn’t looking like a _sty_ by then. For your sake as much as my own.”

He’d at least gotten to clean it up ever since the bathroom flooding incident. But it was going to take a good deal of work to get it up to Mimi’s above-average standards, and he was glad of the time he had, at least, to try and make it up to scratch.

“It’s not a sty at all, Mimi. And you’ll see—I’m doing quite well for myself.”

Now he just had to put a convincing act together.

Here and now, Paul just made a disapproving sort of sound. “One of those many aunts of yours, yeah?”

“Oh yeah, all of them—but mostly the one that really raised me, y’know. Mimi’s a card. Which, as it so happens, I doubt she’ll be sending in the post.”

“Well, we can probably go without a card…but I don’t think you should be all alone for it either. Are you sure you’re not doing anything tonight?”

“Pretty damn sure.”

“Then let’s change that. D’you want to go get dinner somewhere? Whatever you’re up for.”

John stared at him for a moment—and then gave a faint laugh. “What’s this, then? You trying to sweep in from over yonder and rescue me from a night of pathetic boredom otherwise?”

Paul wrinkled his nose a little at that. “It’s called being nice—maybe you’re not familiar with it?”

“Oh, ouch. So it’s out of pity then?”

“Out of the goodness of my heart. You’re free to take it or leave it.”

That much was true—but as John surveyed him, this admittedly very cute Paul with a good taste in music and a love for dogs, he found he didn’t really have the kind of attitude that would get him to say no here, even to salvage what meager pride he had left. He could go out and get supper, as casual as could possibly be. No harm done.

Which was how he found himself heading out later that evening to a local pub, spirits feeling ridiculously uplifted. It wasn’t a date, for christ’s sake, he hadn’t even changed his outfit or anything to something a bit nicer, but it _was_ going out with someone new—and not someone he’d met on an app and hooked up with in a loo somewhere. Made a difference.

But Paul, of course, just had to look good, in jeans and a Henley that he’d probably just thrown on but managed to make look nice all the same. They ordered their food and a round of drinks, settling down at a table in the lively, warmly-lit pub, and without missing much of a beat, Paul asked him about the aunts that were always bothering him.

From there it turned into a discussion about their families, or some of it, at least—John wasn’t too keen on talking about just why it had been Mimi who raised him, which Paul seemed to understand. But they talked about birthdays past, what had constituted their worst and their best ones so far, and were soon in hysterics about it.

“So my poor dear Uncle George is thinking, ‘won’t this be a splendid treat for the lad on his seventeenth birthday? We’ll give him a go in the car and all.’ Mind you, Uncle George loved his car, and he only wanted to do something fun for me. So of course, you know, the very first thing I do after managing to wrangle the stupid thing out of the drive is crash right into our mailbox. I panic, try to move it forward again, and take out about half of Mimi’s flowers in the front garden. Surprised I didn’t give poor George a heart attack, but it _was_ quite some time before we tried driving again.”

Laughing, Paul took a long pull at his drink. “I hope he remembers the story just as fondly as you do.”

“Ah, I think he did. He’s been gone about eight or so years now though.”

“Oh, John…I’m sorry.”

“Nah, that’s all right. But I miss him sometimes, you know.”

“I do understand that,” Paul said quietly, before they soon switched the topic back around to music and films they’d seen recently. It wasn’t much different, John privately observed, then talking to George or Ringo, only it involved less stupid comments (at least, for right now). And it was better than sitting at home with a tub of ice cream and his cooking shows.

He drank a bit, but Paul had even more—and it was plain to see that he didn’t hold his liquor quite as well. By the time it came to settle the tab (they had a real squabble about it, before agreeing to split it), he was notably more unsteady on his feet, and bumping into John constantly as they exited the pub and headed out into the cool night.

“Listen, I…thanks for this tonight and all. It was a bit better of a pre-birthday night than what I had in mind.”

“It’s…no trouble at all,” Paul assured him, though his words were slightly slurred. He staggered a bit, nearly dropping off the curb, and John took him firmly by the arm.

“Are you…going to be all right? I can call a cab for you.”

“Oh, no…no, I’m spiffy—just…I’m fine—”

John couldn’t help but grin. “Is that so? I’d say you’re pissed, actually. C’mon, I’ll get a cab—”

“I don’t want a bloody cab…”

“Sure you do. Cabs are grand. We’ll get you home in one piece.” But as he was about to raise his hand to try and summon a cab, his eyes drifted back to Paul now leaning against a lamppost and holding his head. He wasn’t completely coming apart at the seams—but even if John got him bundled into a cab and sent home, he didn’t know if he’d be able to make it back to his flat without tripping over something.

“Er…listen. My place is within walking distance from here. How about you just…crash on my couch for one night? It’s comfy, I swear. And then I don’t have to worry about you passing out in a gutter somewhere tonight, right?”

Paul squinted at him for a moment, then gave a weak grin. “Yeah…yeah. Don’t feel like…going home alone.”

That cinched it then. John sort of steered him off, taking care not to let him trip over anything too much, and lead him up the stairs to his flat. Pepper was nowhere to be found, but Jack came scuttling over to greet them. Before John could shoo him away, Paul was already beaming.

“You have a _dog.”_

“Yeah, he’s a nice dog. You met him earlier. C’mon, let’s get you settled down here.”

He had to sort of all but drop Paul down on the couch, but as he was still holding onto him, he wound up plunking down next to him too. His head drooped down, the weight resting on John’s shoulder, and stupidly, his breath caught for a moment—just the nearness, just the intimacy of being close to someone like this. His arm almost went around him, but he stopped the urge at the last moment.

“You gonna live through the night?”

Paul gave a tiny nod at that, long eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. “Mm. Yeah. Thanks…thanks, John.”

“Hey, ‘least I can do. Lemme get you a blanket or something.”

He found one of his old ones and a proper pillow, by which time, Paul had already kicked his shoes off and laid down, long body curled up in a ball. Jack was lying on the floor near him, and Paul had one arm outstretched, petting him but looking like he was on auto-pilot judging by the glassy gaze in his eyes. He accepted the offerings from John, though, blinking blearily up at him.

“’night, then.”

“G’night. My bedroom’s just down that hallway if you like…need anything.”

He left the bathroom light on just in case, then headed back to his own room. Pepper was curled up on his bed, clearly avoiding the dog just outside, and John gave him a pat before he crawled under the covers. He’d had a handful of people camp out on his couch overnight, friends and one-night stands alike, but Paul didn’t really fall into either one of those categories—maybe, perhaps, the first one? It was a nice thought.

And it really had been thoughtful of him to want to spend time with him tonight, even if he got pissed afterwards. Truthfully, how the ruddy hell he was apparently single was a question for the ages—but just thinking about that caused another thought to germinate in his mind, one that had everything to do with the rest of his current dilemma.

But no…no, he couldn’t ask that of him. It was more than a bit insane, on top of an idea that was mad enough.

Somehow, even just in his last moments of his wakefulness, he still couldn’t quite shake it off.

To John’s surprise, when he stumbled into the kitchen the following morning, Paul was already up and on the go—not merely that, but the smell of something delicious was in the air while he stood over by the stove. Jack was sitting by Paul’s feet, watching him eagerly as if expecting a treat, and it was the dog that heard John first and came walking over to him instead.

John only gave him the quickest of pats, much more concerned with gawking over at whatever the hell Paul was doing. “Are you…making breakfast?”

“’Morning to you too,” Paul said sardonically, though he looked over his shoulder for a moment with a grin. “Yeah, I’m just finishing the omelets—coffee should be about ready by now too.”

After a night of drinking, John could hardly be counted on to be this productive—here Paul was already busy. Wordlessly, completely blown away, he shuffled over to the coffee maker and reached for the cupboard just above it, fishing out his mug adorned with Shakespearean insults, remembering to get out another one for his house guest. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Oh, go on, then. By the way—you really could stand to clean your refrigerator out. I think there’s a fungus growing in the one drawer.”

“I didn’t ask you to go poking around in there!” John said defensively as he moved the cream and sugar over to the table, and then set about getting the mugs ready. Perhaps it wasn’t wise to pick a fight with the person making you an unexpected but generous breakfast, but all the same.

“No, you didn’t. But you did let me stay here last night, and Mum raised someone with a _decent_ amount of manners, I think. Not to mention it’s your birthday too.”

“So these are ‘thank you’ and ‘happy birthday’ omelets?”

“Yeah, you could say that. Hope you don’t mind if I passed on the ham—don’t eat meat, you know.”

“’s all right. My one friend George has been trying to make me go veggie for ages now. Says it’d be a lot better for me if I did.”

“Well, he’s right. I’m just glad you had tomatoes here, at least.”

He flipped the omelets onto two plates nearby, switched the hob off, and then came over to join John at the table with breakfast in hand. The omelet looked mouth-wateringly perfect, flecks of tomatoes and cheese visible in the egg mixture, and John suddenly felt starving. He took two big bites while it was still hot, then tipped his coffee mug appreciatively.

“I’ll be damned…my compliments to the chef.”

“The chef had a good teacher,” Paul countered. “But thanks.”

“Who was the teacher?”

“Mum again, ages ago. But I dated this bloke a few years back who worked in a restaurant. That was a sad goodbye for that reason alone.”

John snorted at that, but ate the rest of his omelet in an appreciative silence. It really was quite good, so the chef of an ex-boyfriend had left an admirable legacy. And what was more, he had also inadvertently provided John with another insight into Paul’s own history.

It was that notion, combined with how truly and simply pleasant it was just to sit here and enjoy a breakfast with an attractive someone in a fairly cozy setting, that got the wheels in his head turning again. Not just those half-baked, dreamy thoughts before falling asleep, like he’d entertained last night, but something concrete. Something real.

Better to squash it down, wasn’t it, then entertain something so crazy? He could still hear George’s voice muttering away his disapproval.  And so what if he did pop the absolutely loony question to Paul? He might think him insane and they’d say their goodbyes and go separate ways—not a cheery prospect—but…he also might not.

“Speaking of…of exes.”

He didn’t think he did the best job in the world explaining it. How could one reasonably articulate all the weeks of loneliness, of envy, of wanting to do things over again? Paul already knew some of the sad story, but it was hard not to feel like he wasn’t overwhelming him with the details. And then, especially, when it came time to explain just what he was thinking of when it came to the upcoming gallery opening at the Castillo, and just how exactly he planned to handle seeing Stu there.

“So you want me…to pose as your date for an evening?”

“Er…not just a ‘date.’ I mean like full-blown, committed, pre-existing relationship. A little.”

“Well, that’s a _bit_ different. And you’re trying…to pull one over on your ex?”

“Essentially. I guess. No? I want him…I dunno. I want to make it seem like I’ve moved on too.”

Paul didn’t look like he quite believed that. “And make him a little jealous in the process, I bet?”

“It wouldn’t hurt matters. You seem like the kind of person who could, er…incite that sort of reaction.”

“There may have been a compliment somewhere in there. Bit backwards, though.”

“Bit, yeah. But I mean…we could figure it out. We could make it work for one night. And afterwards, I’d…I dunno, but I’d owe you one. Big time.”

“You’ve got that right,” Paul snorted, but he hadn’t collected himself in a huff and stormed out the door yet—John could dare to hold his breath a little and hope that this was a good sign. There was a silence as Paul sipped at his coffee, taking a long drink, and when John opened his mouth to try and say something, he held a finger up to cut him off.

Finally, after several long, agonizing moments, Paul set his coffee mug back down. “All right.”

“…all right?”

“Yes. I must be a bit daffy myself, but I’ll do it.”

“Oh, god—OK—”

“Hang on, let me finish. I’ll do it. But on one condition.”

***

To say that the Castillo Gallery was a grand-looking place wouldn’t be doing it justice. Even just standing outside it, its sleek metal exterior and wide, sweeping windows gave the impression of something posh. John had dressed a little nicer and texted Paul to do the same—but they’d arranged to meet here at 5:45, fifteen minutes before the exhibit actually opened, and he wasn’t here yet.

“Are you sure this Paul bloke is even coming?”

But of course, John wasn’t alone even now. Ringo and Mo had made other plans tonight, but John couldn’t stomach the idea of turning up by himself here if Paul didn’t show. It had taken a good deal of cajoling and threatening to get George to throw on something decent and come along with him—but even now, deep down, he was still grateful that he had.

“Oh, quit your bitching. He’ll show. He promised.”

 At least, he hoped that he would. The past week had been more than a little strange—how did one prep somebody to be your fake partner?

“You shouldn’t have to talk to Stu _that_ much. So we can make it quick. But it’s gotta be convincing.”

“All right…let’s start with the basics. How long have we been together?”

“Two months. No, or you might’ve been at Ringo’s wedding. One month.”

“Two months is enough time to get the wedding invite but one month isn’t?”

“Don’t question it.”

“Oh, but I have to—it’s relevant information, isn’t it?”

“All right, fine. _About_ two months then. And shit, we’d really better have been on some great dates. Let’s say Brighton.”

“Well, forget the dates, no one needs to hear about those—how did we first meet?”

“At my bookshop. Of course.”

Paul had smiled at that. “I guess a touch of the truth in there doesn’t hurt anything.”

They had tried to cover it all. It was only going to be one night, really just a few hours, and John thought they could manage. The question now seemed to be, however, if Paul was even going to show up at all.

He scanned the vehicle-packed street with a rising unease, hoping against hope that Stuart didn’t somehow appear outside right now. From nearby, George stamped out his cigarette (the man would do everything in his power to preach a healthy, mindful lifestyle to John, only to turn around and smoke like a chimney—a dash of hypocrisy he’d only been glad to point out more than once) and heaved a sigh.

“Look…John, I’m really sorry, but I don’t think he’s—”

“I’m here! Sorry I’m late, honestly—you’d think everyone and their mum was in this part of London tonight.”

A new voice, Paul’s voice, had broken through their conversation, and John turned around as a massive wave of relief washed over him. He couldn’t help but grin at the sight of his supposed date coming up the pavement, wearing slacks and a neat shirt with a sweater vest. George eyed him curiously before finally saying, “…hullo, I’m George. I guess you could say I’m the support staff for tonight.”

“John’s told me a bit about you,” Paul informed him. “Nice to meet you in person.”

“Whatever John’s been saying, it’s probably a damn lie. He’s decent at that.”

“Oh, that’s hilarious!” John fake-grinned, when Paul was looking away, opting to give his friend a choice finger. Sadly, he wasn’t wrong as of late—shortly after Paul had gone home on Sunday, he’d had to return ‘his dog’ back to his rightful owners, knowing full well he’d have to explain his absence all too soon.

“How was he? Did he behave?” Mick asked while Jack danced around him, and John had shrugged.

“Yeah, he was fine. He might have helped get me a date, actually.”

Mick had laughed at that. “Brilliant! That’s a good boy then, huh, Jack? We missed you.”

John would have to find a way to possibly kidnap their dog at a later date if need be.

For now, he exchanged a look with Paul as the three of them made their way to the entrance of the gallery and spoke in a low whisper. “A sweater vest? Really?”

“You said dress smart!”

“So I did.” And when he took his hand, it felt almost natural. George didn’t say anything about it as they handed their tickets over to the attendant inside the front doors. The lobby was paneled with grey stone and a small rock fountain created a sort of ambiance that was almost soothing. Meditative. The corridor they walked down then had a white carpet and matching walls, with moody, black and white photographs decorating the way.

“Better not spill anything in here then, eh?” George asked them, gesturing to the carpet. “Knowing me, that glass of champagne is going right onto it before long.”

“Imagine the cleaning bills,” Paul agreed. “They’ve got to be prepared for that sort of thing.”

But they had to be prepared for something else entirely as they made their way into the main gallery. The shadowy-designed banners and posters with the ‘Illusions of Realism’ title on them decorated the place as they walked into an enormous room with a high, arched ceiling, numerous studio lights shining down, and paintings lining the walls. It was already decently crowded, smartly-attired people sipping drinks and milling around, talking quietly to one another as they pointed things out.

The reception was held in a room just off the gallery, where the food and drink was being served, and George pointed uneasily in that direction. “Er…shall we grab something then?”

Little hors d’oeuvres were being served by some kind of catering service in their uniforms, small standing tables available as well as a mini bar. Paul went and got wine for them while John filled some  plates with a bit of everything, and they managed to squeeze around a table of their own.

“Where’s this Stuart of yours?” Paul asked him in a low voice, and John did his best to take a non-conspicuous glance around the room.

“Not here. We’d better eat and go.”

“Whatever you say, love.”

They took the wine with them, but kept their other hands twined together. It wasn’t so bad, John thought as they wove their way through the crowd—it almost felt nice. But his sense of anticipation was so on the edge, like back at Ringo and Maureen’s wedding only magnified once again. Now, though, he knew he’d be encountering Stuart with someone at his side.

John found his artwork before he actually found him. He would recognize it anywhere, of course he would, but it was something else entirely to see the huge paintings on display in a proper setting, not just propped up on easels in any spot Stu could find space in the flat. There was little denying how beautiful they looked, one a painting of the riverbank by the Thames but done in blues and greys, another a busy street scene. The small plaque next to them identified the artist and his inspiration for the pieces, and Paul read it with apparent, genuine interest.

“Wow…he’s got quite a talent, yeah? You said he was a good artist, but bloody hell.”

“Stu’s always been good,” George chimed in from beside them. “It’s about time he got some recognition for it, honestly.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

They all turned around as a newcomer joined them—but George was the only one who recognized the man dressed in all-black. “Hello again, Klaus.”

John froze up a little at the name, and Paul gave him a curious glance. Klaus greeted them all politely before going on.

“It was wonderful to get an artist like Stuart Sutcliffe’s work, truly. I’ve had a lot of people tell me that already too.”

“Yeah, well—I used to tell him someday all the fancy art dealers would be lining up to get his stuff,” John muttered. “Guess you could say I called it.”

“Oh, you know him?” Klaus looked interested, and he looked over towards George again too late to take note of the urgent, unmistakable ‘cease and desist’ gesture of waving his hand across his throat in a slicing, deadly manner.

“We used to go out,” John said stiffly, and felt Paul squeeze his hand—and that made him feel a bit better. Comprehension, however, dawned on Klaus’ face then.

“Oh my god…are you John? Stu’s said so much about you. Good things, I promise.”

“Yeah, that’s…me.” But his pulse had picked up a little at the thought. Good things?

“I expect he’ll want to say hello himself. Here he is now.”

Klaus gestured just behind them, and John must have whipped around so fast he about took Paul’s arm from its socket, the wine sloshing in its glass. Stu had appeared from out of the throng of people, also dressed all in black and looking impossibly glossy and handsome—damn him. As if sensing the tension in the room on some kind of other wavelength, George muttered a quick hello to Stu before quietly melting into the background with Klaus.

Stu’s eyebrows raised when he saw Paul, but he spoke to John first. A warm, genuine smile unfurled on his face as he did so, hands moving like he wanted to reach out and touch him, perhaps his shoulder or his arm—but he held back. “I’m so glad you came, John. I really…I really can’t tell you how much it means.”

“Well…you know. I thought I’d come and see if any of those old scribbles got anywhere.”

“And what d’you think?”

“Oh…I wouldn’t hang them up in my sitting room, but they’re nice, aren’t they?”

But he grinned a little, and Stu did too, and something ballooned in John’s chest—until Paul made a slight sound behind him, and reality kicked back in.

“God, how stupid of me—Stu, this is my boyfriend, Paul. Paul, Stu.”

It was obvious to see, even in the courteous hellos they exchanged, that there was a distinct moment of sizing each other up—gazes flicking upwards, curiously taking in a glance. “How long have you two been together then?”

“Two months,” Paul answered smoothly, giving John a beam. “I was new in the city and stumbled upon John’s bookshop—you could say the rest is history.”

“Unless he tidied the place up a bit, I’m surprised it didn’t give you some very insightful hints about its owner,” Stu joked. “Fair warning: he’s a right slob.”

“Because living with an artist is so conducive to keeping a neat house,” John scoffed. “In any case, it gives the bookshop character, I think.”

“What did that one travel blogger call it?”

He remembered that too. “Er…charmingly shabby, if I remember right.”

Stu gave a laugh at that, and John turned back to Paul. “Whatever you want to say about it, it clearly worked its magic. Paul here was just so blown away.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Paul gave him a good-natured nudge. “But I couldn’t help but like the owner, stuck in his madcap world of old books and good records. Bit slim on those, though.”

John might have defended himself once again, but Stuart was too quick. “And what is it that you do, Paul?”

“I teach over at the Holden School. Music, y’know, it was the only thing I could see myself doing.”

“Well, that explains why you and John might have got on so well then—big music person, isn’t that right?”

“Oh, sure. Paul still isn’t quite keen on Elton John yet, but we’ll get him there.”

 “It might take time. But I’m dying to hear how it is a music-oriented person knows someone like Charles Millet, Paul. John told me you’re connected. I’ve admired his work for a while.”

At that, John couldn’t help but freeze up—and with their hands still clasped, he felt Paul do something of the same. He had forgotten, completely forgotten, the stupid remark he’d thrown out to Stu at the wedding about his boyfriend’s so-called connection…and he gave a nervous laugh, about to blurt something out, but Paul was already speaking up.

“I have an old friend, Jane, whose family knows everyone—I mean everyone—in the world of art and theater. I met him at one of their holiday parties once.”

It sounded almost convincing even to John’s ears—and Stuart certainly looked impressed. “That’s incredible. What’s he like in person?”

“Erm…quiet. Very…very introspective.”

“What d’you think of his piece ‘The Wheel of the World?’ It’s got that touch of surrealism I like so much—weird color choice, but I think it works with what he’s trying to convey.”

Paul was nodding along like he understood, but John saw how his eyes had widened, a silent sign of distress and a call for help. “Well, I…y’know, it’s…it’s so meaningful, isn’t it? There’s a truth to it, but no reason. It’s cyclical, but it doesn’t follow a pattern. And I think that really…says so much about life, doesn’t it? About the world itself? We can try to push it all we want but there’s never going to be that…deeper meaning.”

John gawked at him, but Stuart nodded approvingly, plainly excited by the answer. “Yes…yes, I feel the same way! Maybe you’ll have better luck getting those ideas across to John then I ever did.”

“I’ll give it my best shot,” Paul said bravely, fixing John with an adoring expression—and he saw it there. A quick, uneasy flicker on Stu’s face, the smile seeming fixed in place. And it was just then that he looked around, suddenly eager to change the subject.

“There’s, uh…there’s someone I think you ought to meet. Let me see if I can find Astrid.”

John had only a morbid sort of interest in actually meeting her—but what _was_ intriguing was how quickly he’d switched the subject around to the introduction of his own new significant other. Feeling a bit under pressure, perhaps? Like he had to prove a point to John?

As she looked in the pictures he’d seen online, Astrid proved to be a tiny, almost elfin-looking woman with blonde hair cropped short and wide eyes that took up much of her face. She wasn’t stunningly gorgeous, exactly, but she was certainly striking in her own way—and she and Stu looked good together.

“It’s wonderful to meet you, John,” Astrid told him, her voice tinged with an accent like Klaus’. “And so thoughtful of you to come tonight.”

“Oh…you know, it’s the sort of thing we do for our Stu,” John said brightly. “And he was so interested in meeting Paul, besides.”

Astrid and Stuart exchanged a quick look at that—but it was impossible for John to stop the grim sense of satisfaction racing through him like a poison. Fair was fair, Stuart had found some kind of upgrade from John himself…but he could turn the tables right back around on him. Meeting Astrid for the first time in person didn’t sting quite so bad when he could take some shred of smugness with it. Never mind that his own supposed happy relationship was built on a complete lie.

Off to the side, George was doing his damn best to avoid eavesdropping on the conversation that had nothing to do with him—but he couldn’t help but feel a tad responsible for John’s asinine plan and any of the resulting fallout that came with it. He hadn’t elected to take his advice, obviously, so he could claim he’d tried his best to put a stop to it…but that didn’t feel quite true.

“Did your friend like her flowers?” He opted to speak to Klaus instead, who gave a nod.

“She loved them. Which reminds me of something else I was thinking of—I’m starting to consider redecorating the gallery a bit.”

“It’s very posh now, isn’t it?” George remarked. “Only, well…I imagine that’s what you’re going for and all.”

“Sort of,” Klaus agreed. “But it’s a tad…overdone too, don’t you think? You could walk into any other art gallery in the world and it might look just the same.”

George gave a bit of a shifty smirk at that. “Er…I wouldn’t really know, to tell you the truth. I can probably count on one hand all the ones I’ve been in. Yours is nice, though, it really is.”

“Thank you.” Klaus still seemed almost amused by his lack of exposure. “Still, I think it might be…nice to change things up a little. Make it fresher, somehow, more alive. Art lives and breathes in its own way, yes? Why hole it up behind nothing but stone walls and lights?”

“…right.” Right enough, at least. George could agree with that much.

“So what I wanted to ask you is if you offer any kind of decorating business too. I know you arranged the flowers for your friend’s wedding. I promise, we could match your price and pay you well—it’s not entirely flowers that I’m looking for here.”

“So you mean…?”

“Plants too, things like that.” Klaus fixed him with something of a bemused look. “What did you think I meant?”

“Nothing. Nothing, er…that’s what I thought. But you’re right, though, I do that sort of thing too—I’d be glad to stop by sometime and talk about whatever it is you want done.”

“Fantastic.” It looked like perhaps Klaus wanted to say more, but his attention was soon diverted by other gallery-goers who had questions for him. Still, his gaze lingered on George for a moment longer before he turned away—and this left him with little choice but to try and acclimate back into whatever the hell conversation John was carrying on.

The time for pleasantries had come and gone over here. Astrid was indicating the many pieces of artwork on display around them and saying, “We’d best let you get on then—the exhibit’s quite large, you’ll want to take the time to look around.”

John and Paul both agreed to this, but Stu spoke up before they could depart. “Wait a minute. Maybe, now that we’ve all been introduced to one another…maybe the four of us could go out sometime? Grab dinner somewhere, I dunno, unless that’s too…” His voice trailed off, like he couldn’t think of the right word for it, and subtly, Paul dug his elbow into John’s side.

He got the message loud and clear. “Uh…it’s a fab idea, Stu, really, but we’ll have to check our social calendars and all. Busy, busy!”

“Oh, do say you’ll come,” Astrid chimed in beseechingly. “We go out once a month with friends of ours, you two would be welcome along—at least think it over?’

“Yeah, I…yeah, sure. We can probably make that.”

Stuart smiled, one that was directed entirely at John—and that seemed to make the whole ordeal somehow worth it. He and Astrid excused themselves then and melted back into the crowd, and Paul about instantly rounded on John instead.

“Can we talk? Outside?”

“Oh, hell…should’ve known this was coming.”

They had barely made it through the doors and back onto the pavement outside when Paul was already fuming at him. “What the hell was that about in there? I didn’t agree to another date, you can’t just sign me up for one like that!”

“Relax,” John advised him, throat feeling oddly scratchy—god, he’d kill for a cigarette. “We didn’t actually commit to anything. We’ll just bail on the whole thing.”

“Great. Oh…and the whole Charles Millet bit? Anything you want to tell me there?”

“It sounded like you really knew him. But, eh…yeah. Sorry about that one.”

Paul heaved a sigh, arms folded across his chest—then lifted his eyes heavenward like the beginnings of an exasperated expression. “Well…I would say it worked on Stuart. This whole thing did.”

“Really?” John had to perk up a little at that. “I thought maybe…but it could’ve been just me being stupid—”

“There’s always room for that,” Paul conceded, but it was with something of a small, rueful smile, before he let out a sigh. “Well. I don’t know if it’ll go anywhere for you, but I hope it does if that’s what you want.”

“Yeah, I…it is.”

They studied each other for a moment longer in the glow of the lights from the gallery, and then Paul looked back towards the building. “I guess we’d better get back in there. Be a bit strange to duck out now.”

“Guess you’re right. C’mon, then.”

If the evening had been a successful one, it was hard to tell right away. George certainly thought not, but as he’d made a potential business opportunity, John didn’t see how he had any real room to complain. The two of them certainly squabbled enough to make up for Paul’s lack of input, he’d fallen oddly quiet as the three of them all said goodbye at the end of the night.

When it was just the two of them, John reached out and lightly touched his arm. “Hey, I really do…I do want to thank you for tonight. It would’ve been dead terrible if I had just been here on my own.”

“Oh, don’t mention it.” And Paul seemed to have livened up a bit, giving John more of a grin. “We’ll get my own end of the deal, right? We’re still on for the 11th?”

“…yeah, we are.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make a list of all the people you’ll need to know.”

“I can’t believe—”

John’s phone vibrated from within his pocket, and he brought it out to check it—only to heave a groan when he read the display there. Somehow, he’d missed two calls from Mimi tonight, and the second one had warranted the leaving of a voicemail.

“God, it’s my aunt again—she’s coming down next weekend to see me. She’s all concerned because she thinks I’m living in misery here.”

Paul bit down on his lower lip a little at that. “Well…I’m sure it’s just because she cares, John, sometimes people are funny about—”

But John looked up from his phone and back at him as a new, suddenly so-crazy-it-might-work idea struck him. Mimi believed he was leading a lonely, tragic life now, with only a small flat and a cat for company—there could be no better way than to prove his aunt wrong and get her off his case once and for all than to give her the opposite of all that.

“Say…you’re not free this next weekend here, are you?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for another delay--life often gets the best of me. this chapter is a bit on the shorter side, but narrative-wise it's where i wanted to end things, and it also keeps me from taking even more time to put out a longer update. i hope that's understood!
> 
> thanks as always for the patience, for reading, and for any feedback! i love going through the comments i get and i appreciate them so much.

“I can’t believe you talked me into this.”

 “You said you would! And after what I’m doing for you, I figure you owe me another couple hours, at least.”

Paul could hardly argue with that logic, but John saw him struggle with the urge to snap something back anyway. They were on their way to his flat instead this time, going to pick up the ‘supplies’ they needed for Mimi’s weekend visit—because his aunt, as John had assured his alleged boyfriend a good handful of times, was as sharp as a tack and not liable to miss much. Every detail of John’s own place would be analyzed thoroughly, and not having evidence of the supposedly happy, committed relationship he was in was going to raise an eyebrow.

“All right…I reckon that I do. You get one dinner, understand? One.”

“I hear you, I hear you. No offense, but that’s probably all she’ll really  _want_ to see of you.”

Paul made something of a laugh at that as they headed into the lift to take them up to his flat. “Very nice. Did she, uh…did she like Stuart at all? Would hate to think that I’m going to be the follow-up act to someone like that.”

“Er, no. She didn’t really. She didn’t think he was ever going to amount to much with the artist’s lifestyle, you know? So if anything, there’s ample room for improvement here.”

Of course, provided that the scheme worked and someday, Stuart came back into John’s life—he’d have to find a way to explain to Mimi how he’d chucked someone she approved of in favor of that ‘bohemian’ she’d never liked. He was willing to endure it.

“Oh…that’s a relief.”

“Sort of. It goes without saying that she doesn’t think  _anyone_ is really good enough for me though, so just keep that in mind.”

“Fab. Well, we’re in for a bit of whiplash then when you meet my own family…they’ll be tripping over themselves to be nice to you.”

“Well…don’t worry too much about Mimi. You’ll only have to put up with her for a little, and I’ll be there too.”

“I feel so reassured now.” Paul’s tone was sarcastic, but his faint smile wasn’t—and John reaffirmed his mental vow to do right by him, intervene if Mimi got too shirty. He didn’t want to be put in her spotlight either, but it was still better him than Paul.

By now, Ringo had been let it on his current misadventure, and he’d taken it more or less exactly as John had expected him to.

“John, answer me honestly—are you taking the piss?”

“That’s what I wanted to know,” George muttered from around the lip of his tea cup, the three of them all sitting around his kitchen where they’d met up after work, and John had been quick to defend himself.

“No! As it so happens, I’m, uh…quite serious about it.”

“Oh god, that’s even worse!” Ringo rounded on George then, looking almost accusatory. “And you knew before me and didn’t say anything?”

“I said plenty!” George insisted. “It’s not my fault’s John about as thick as—”

“Watch it there.”

“Well,” George said, rather maddeningly. “I’m right anyways, and Ringo agrees.”

“Let’s have a look, then. Who  _is_ this Paul bloke?”

They had successfully found him on Instagram, all of them crowded around then to peer at Ringo’s phone screen. Besides the usual pictures one might expect to find, there were plenty videos of song covers too, but Ringo didn’t stop to listen to any (John had, and he knew that he was good) before he looked incredulously over at John.

“Bloody hell, you didn’t say that you bagged a model.”

“Surprisingly attractive men are surprisingly attracted to John,” George said with a smirk, and John kicked him.

“What can I say, Rings? I dunno, but I like him a lot, I do.”

“So if you’re fake-dating…does that mean you’re having fake sex? The sort that takes not even fifteen minutes?”

“Well, I  _suppose_  you might know a thing or two about that—”

“Oi!”

“Sorry, but as the resident straight friend here, you’ve got to admit—”

“Enough about that,” Ringo said hastily. “As that’s hardly an answer, is it? Either you are or you aren’t.”

“We aren’t,” John said firmly.

“Yeah, but I really doubt you’d be so morally opposed if, er…anything happened,” George pointed out. “You’re still hung up on Stu, but not  _that_ much.”

Ringo seemed almost concerned by the prospect, turning those doleful-looking eyes back onto John. “Oh, god—listen. If this Paul is going along with it, then there’s not much else I can say. But don’t go mucking things up too bad, yeah?”

“Your note of confidence is truly inspiring.” Between Ringo’s bafflement and George’s snark, it had perhaps been a mistake to clue his friends into any of the plan at all.

But it was too late to take it back now. And his two mates could doubt or question him all they wanted, but they hadn’t seen Stu that night at the gallery when he’d been there with Paul—or seen how he’d tried to add John on social media again. He hadn’t responded to any of the requests, the tiny, petty part of him enjoying keeping him in the dark for a few days, but the fact remained that  _he_ was the one who’d initiated it. Stu was.

“Well…you’re sure that counts as some kind of result?” Paul had asked, looking almost tentative, and John scoffed.

“Oh yeah! He’s probably trying to look for more pictures of us—maybe we should get a couple together.”

Getting some kind of response out of Stuart was quite different from keeping Mimi at bay, however. The point here wasn’t to elicit any strong emotion, on the contrary, it was to convince his aunt that she needn’t feel deeply any way at all, that he was happy and content with his life now. If anything, it was working in the opposite direction.

And to help keep the illusion up, they had to present an image of cozy cohabitating, at least a little bit. To say that Paul had completely moved in with him by this point was going too far, but just having a few odds and ends of his around would go a long way towards the goal here.

Paul’s flat was perhaps a bit roomier than John’s, but otherwise suggested the same kind of bachelorhood-ridden occupant. Making it through the tiny corridor that led into the living room, John’s eyes first landed on the highly impressive shelves of records lining one of the walls, a turntable resting just nearby. John let out a whistle, peering at some of the titles before turning around to face Paul.

“And you thought you’d find anything new at my tiny little shop? Not likely. You’ve got here more than I do over there.”

“Well…it was worth a look,” Paul said, unzipping his jacket and tossing it on the couch nearby. “Besides—it’s a good thing that I did, isn’t it? We might not be here now if I hadn’t.”

“No, I reckon not.” And the thought was strangely a lonely one. Even without the added element of their pretend relationship, whatever Paul was helping him out with now, he found he didn’t much like contemplating the alternative.

“So…what are you thinking we get here, exactly?”

“Oh, odds and ends—maybe a mug or two, some spare jumpers. Gotta look domesticated-like.”

Paul pulled a face at him, but went obediently enough to his task in the kitchen. This left John free to poke around for a moment more, scanning the bookshelves again before looking around him. A keyboard was pushed into one corner, a guitar leaning on the wall next to it. Over on the windowsill was a framed picture, depicting a family of four on a beach somewhere. It was easy to identify which one of the two young boys was Paul, he had the same eyes though a rounder, boyish face, and he had his arm around the shorter kid next to him. The two adults standing behind them and smiling could only be their parents.

“All right—I’ll go and grab a couple hoodies or something, we can—”

But Paul cut himself off when he saw what John was looking at. “Oh…yeah, that’s my family. I’m, I dunno, maybe eight or so in that picture.”

“So this is your brother? The one that’s getting married?” John tapped the glass over the younger buck-toothed boy, and Paul smiled.

“Yeah, that’s him. Hard to believe it, it feels like only last week he was still begging to share my toys and what have you. Absolutely mad.”

“Does it feel weird that he’s pulling the trigger before you are?”

Paul shrugged at that. “I dunno. I guess, a bit…I think more so to the rest of my family than it does to me. But that’s where you come in, mate.”

“My second wedding in two months,” John bemoaned. “Fucking hell. The next one I have to go to had better be my own.”

“I’ll leave you to work that one out on your own,” Paul said with good humor. “I would like to promise that Mike’s isn’t going to be some overblown affair—but I’d probably be lying.”

“Ah, well…” John sighed. “We had ourselves a deal. Assuming Mimi doesn’t make you go running for the hills before then, I mean.”

“..is that likely?”

“Dunno.” John appraised him for a moment. Stuart had always dreaded any visits from Mimi, knowing full well about the disapproval radiating from her, but he’d taken it all with a sort of quiet dignity. He knew it had bothered him though, deep down, but he’d never much wanted to talk about it, however often John tried to ask. Paul seemed a little different. “I reckon you’ll be all right. And it’s just for a short while.”

Unlike his own flat, which looked rather sloppy, Paul’s place had a different kind of feel to it. It wasn’t neat as a pin, to be sure, but it somehow looked sparse in contrast to his own, more like a hotel room or the like that the occupant was only temporarily staying in, not making a permanent home at. It was difficult to articulate, and not something he’d want to do aloud.

They collected a small assortment of items, enough to stuff into a decent-sized rucksack, and the two of them headed back to John’s flat. When the door swung open, Paul looked around expectantly, and it took John a moment too long to realize what it was he was searching for.

“Jack! Are you here?”

The dog was likely really only a short number of feet away from them, over at home with his owners. His real owners. After a momentary blip of panic, John pushed past it to do his best and recover.

“Er…Mimi’s allergic to dogs. Totally hates them. So I’ve got Jack staying with a friend for a couple days until she leaves.”

Paul furrowed his brows at that. “Poor bloke. Couldn’t you send him over for just the weekend and give the place a really good Hoovering before your aunt gets here?”

“It’s better to be safe rather than sorry with her. Trust me.”

“Well…if you say so, then.”

God, he was going to need a better excuse. Or the kidnapping idea was always an option. Perhaps he could see if Keith and Mick wanted to get away for another weekend coming up.

By the time Paul finally made to go, John could tell that both of them were more than a little on edge. “Oh wait, hold on—before you leave…” With that, he held up his phone and snapped a picture of him—Paul had just been in the middle of setting Pepper down, but was still holding him in his arms.

“Oh, John…honestly—”

“We’ve got to look convincing, no? Besides, it’s a cute picture of you and Pep. Might make a good Christmas card.”

Paul glanced at the picture of himself with the white cat in his arms and rolled his eyes. “Oh, fine. If you must.”

“That one is going on Instagram,” John declared, pressing the few buttons needed to upload it. “Caption, let’s see—‘the light of my whole life. And Paul’s not too shabby either.’”

He laughed a little at that. “It’d be accurate, at least.”

“Done. Ooh, wait for the comments on that one.”

When he looked back over at Paul, he seemed almost anxious somehow, giving the flat a careful, studious look. “You really think we can pull this off again?”

“It’s just for one more night. Well—one more night on my end, I mean. We’ll have more time to prep for this wedding of yours, but honestly…we’ll make it out of this one. Trust me.”

***

There was nothing to prepare for here that George hadn’t done before, yet there was something about this situation that seemed…different. It was the mutual connection, he figured, him and the new client both tangled up in an interpersonal web that couldn’t be undone at the moment. Nor was it really any of his business to do so, and nor would it keep him from simply doing his job here as he would with anyone else.

As with most times when he met customers outside the flower shop for other appointments and jobs, he wore nicer jeans (so no dirt and certainly no rips) and a button-down shirt, as always, just grabbing whatever happened to be first in the closet. Heading out the door and scooping up his bag, he was sure to pick up the little case that contained the ukulele he had to run out afterwards to the music shop for slight repairs. Lugging it around with him would hardly be a chore when it was so light.

“D’you ever stop playing that thing?” Ringo had teased him once, not long after he’d bought the instrument. Constant nights spent sitting cross-legged on the couch and picking away at it just seemed to confirm the answer to his friend’s question—there were worse ways to waste one’s time after work, and it was hard not to feel just a tiny bit happier picking away at the little instrument.

He glanced at his phone once he got settled down on the bus, unsurprised to see that nobody new had sent him a message. Most of his friends would be at work right now, and he hadn’t heard from Pattie in at least a week. Perhaps she was getting as tired with…whatever it was they had going on as he was.

The Castillo was open today, but given that it was a weekday in the middle of the morning, George doubted it was going to be any crowded. It still made for an impressive-looking building even without the glimmer of nighttime lights to accent it, and he checked his bag to make sure he had what he needed one more time before pulling open the heavy glass door and stepping inside.

“So you’ve made it!” He was greeted by Klaus, who had been poring over some papers in the entryway just before George came in and now turned to him with a smile.

“Sorry I’m a bit late—traffic, you know.”

“I do know. Why don’t we go into my office first?”

George expected the office to be as immaculate and modern as the rest of the building, but to his slight surprise, it had what his mum would label more of a “lived-in” look. Countless papers and binders littered the desk, somewhere amidst it all was a lone laptop peeking out like an island in the middle of the ocean. Not unexpectedly, framed paintings hung from the wall, but messier sketches were pinned to a corkboard next to the window that looked as if they had been pulled from anywhere.

“Let me see here—you can sit down anywhere.”

At the invitation, George glanced at the scuffed leather seats, most of which were piled high with new papers. Klaus, who was rooting around for something on his desk, glanced up in time to see the struggle and made a small sound.

“Oh, shit—wait a minute—”

George watched with something of a wry amusement as Klaus moved things around, stacking them up more and allowing a space to free up for him to sit in. When he took a seat, Klaus produced a series of papers from a folder and handed the whole package over to him.

“There we are. Now, I’m not entirely sure what you’re used to here, but…I’ve got several ideas in mind.”

What he had done was sketch the interior of the gallery itself, but redesigned as he saw it in his mind’s eye. Trailing ivy crept up the white walls, a wooden trellis with what looked like ferns and other leafy plants hung up by the lobby, ropes of flowers bordering ceilings everywhere. He hadn’t added any color to it, but it was still easy to visualize how much more dynamic and alive-looking the whole place would become from its sharp, monochromatic appearance right now.

“…is it all right? Doable?” Klaus asked anxiously, clearly taking George’s stunned silence as a bad sign.

“I can do it. It’s just…going to look different, that’s all.”

“Well, I certainly hope so. Let’s go and have a look.”

He was determined when he put his mind to it. The sketches were useful to have, but standing out where Klaus wanted certain arrangements done and being able to see it for himself certainly helped. And as he had thought earlier, given what time of day it was, it was very quiet inside the gallery with only a small trickle of people, and that made it easy for them to carry on their conversation uninterrupted.

By the time they made their way back to the office, George wasn’t quite sure just how long it had been. He was just finishing adding up a row of figures to give Klaus a final estimate of what all the designing and rearranging would cost him, when the art director glanced over at the clock over on the wall.

“Oh, it’s lunchtime already, no wonder I’m starving. Do you want to go get something to eat?”

George looked up from his work, completely taken aback by the offer, and Klaus gave a shrug. “No, you’re probably busy, I’m sure you’ve got to get back to the shop—”

“Not so badly, I don’t,” George told him, inexplicably, starting to smile a little. “Yeah, let’s go get lunch. I’m up for anything. But, er, I just printed off the estimate.”

The printer perched up on the one cabinet spewed out the document he’d sent to it, and Klaus swiped it from there before glancing it over and then filing it away. “Sounds fair to me. But how about we put the business on hold for right now, yes?”

Well, he could certainly do that for a while, though his mind was already whirling with the possibilities of all he could do here. For now, though, he put the ideas aside and headed out the door with the client in question into the weak sunlight of the day. They stopped at a nearby bistro and settled into a booth to eat, and as George placed his bag and case next to him on the seat, Klaus nodded over to it.

“What do you have there?”

“Oh…I’ve had this ukulele for a couple years now. Something to do in my spare time, y’know. But now it needs repairs, so I thought I’d take care of that while I was out today.”

“I don’t remember the last time I met anyone who played that,” Klaus admitted. “Guitar, yes, but not that. Have you been doing it long?”

It was a perfectly polite, normal conversation, but what George could appreciate was how nobody tried to force it to extend past its shelf life—when their food came, they fell into an easy, natural sort of silence, and truthfully, he was grateful for it. Too many people preferred to chatter away about nothing to fill moments like that.

Klaus finished eating first, and after a few moments of just idly looking out the window at the passerby outside, he fished a charcoal pencil out of his own bag and began to doodle on the paper napkin at the table. George watched him work, his left hand leaving grey smudges on the paper and a streak stamped to the side of it when he held up the result.

“What do you think?”

It was just a quick sketch of the street scene outside, as viewed through the somewhat grimy window of the bistro, but even for something scribbled on a napkin, there was no denying it was good. He’d even included the people crowded around the bench to wait for the bus, and a bloke nearby who was playing the guitar, the case opened out in front of him to collect coins. The whole thing was stunningly detailed for how quickly it had taken him to accomplish.

“Christ…and you’ve got another job, really?”

“I told you when we first met...this is how I got started,” Klaus said, pushing the napkin aside. “I don’t get to draw, certainly not paint, as much as I used to, but—it’s always been my favorite thing.”

“I can see why,” George muttered. “Me, you know…don’t mean to brag, but my stick figures can be quite good, sometimes.”

“Well, that’s the thing about art,” Klaus said, tapping his long fingers against the table before reaching out and picking up his pencil again. “Maybe you can’t sketch the way I do, but I couldn’t come up with the designs like you. Or care for the flowers in the first place—I don’t have too much of a green thumb. But they’re both…they’re both about finding that beauty that’s in the world around us, aren’t they? That’s why I draw. Because there’s so much out there.”

He was sketching as he spoke, not looking at George, and it was just as well—because he might have been gaping at him a little. Very few people he knew, outside of his yoga class or other similar venues, spoke like that. Certainly, not the friends he usually spent time with. When they finally made eye contact again, Klaus looked immediately down at the other side of the napkin, resuming work, and it made George suspect just what he was up to.

“Hey, you’re not…”

But when he showed him what it was, it turned out to be a picture like the ones they’d discussed earlier, of flowers and plants arranged in a garden somewhere. George felt both relieved and rather stupid all at once, but truthfully, what had he honestly expected? What was more, this was far better of a thing, and he leaned over to see it a little better.

“Lovely—even on the back of a bloody napkin. Looks like someplace I’d want to be any old day.”

“Maybe that’s what I had in mind,” Klaus said, just before he crumpled the napkin up and tossed it aside.

“Well…that can hardly be the only sort of thing you like to do,” George pressed on. “But being the artsy type—I dunno, it’s probably all classical music and weird French avant-garde films, isn’t it?”

Klaus laughed at that. “What’s wrong with either of those things?”

“Nothing, ‘course, it’s just…” He trailed off, not wanting to offend, but Klaus seemed to catch on.

“They’re cliché, I know. I do like those things. There’s a lot more out there. It’s not like you Brits don’t have a wonderful sense of humor—I’ve just started watching all those old  _Monty Python_ episodes. Great stuff.”

George brightened up at that—he only owned the complete series in a box set thanks to his friends several Christmases ago. “Of course! Yeah, they’re some of my favorites. Which one are you up to?”

There were far less enjoyable ways to spend the lunch hour than like this. The conversation veered from not only movies and art, but to upcoming plans George had for his shop as well as new exhibits Klaus was working on at the gallery. Not once did John come up, or Stuart, or any of the people that bridged them together—and George found that he liked that. Finding that ground without anyone else in the picture.

It was finally Klaus who thought to check the time and gave a small start. “Oh, shit—it’s been over an hour. I didn’t mean to keep you this long—”

“No, uh—me neither, y’know, I just…” He’d lost track of time. It was hardly a bad thing while it was happening, but now was distinct cause to be flustered.

“Didn’t know how long it had been,” Klaus finished for him, and George gave a quick nod.

“Yeah, I…I guess. I’d better let you get back to work.”

“Of course. So I’ll see you again next Wednesday then?”

It was the day they’d agreed upon earlier for George to stop by again for the first phase of the project—and it seemed like a long time away all of a sudden. “Right. And you’ve, uh…got my number. If something changes.”

 “I do. Thank you again, George—it’ll be nice working with you.” And he offered his hand to shake, like you would with a business deal, and, well…that’s what this really was, after all. He was easy to talk to, and so it had been simple to let that slip that mind.

George shook his hand before they parted ways, bidding each other goodbye and going in separate directions once outside the bistro. He hadn’t made it very far—maybe only a few steps—before he paused in the middle of the pavement and turned around for a moment. Even through the crowd of people pushing past him, he could see how Klaus had stopped too, how he was looking his way as well.

Something in him seemed to give a little flip of pleased surprise at that. He lifted a hand in farewell, then properly turned and walked off, heading back to the shop for the day. It was just a professional, working relationship that was only going to last until he got things finished up for him at the gallery—but no one had said he couldn’t enjoy it along the way.

***

Unsurprisingly, when John went to meet Mimi at the train station, she had already found something to nitpick about. Clutching her overnight bag in one hand and just slinging her rather large purse over her shoulder with the other, her lips were pursed in the classic sign of displeasure—a sight John was rather familiar with.

“Truly, these trains—could they possibly make them any more uncomfortable?”

“They knew you were coming and rolled out only the best, Meems,” John greeted her with a grin, moving forward to peck her on the cheek. The smell of her perfume, the kind she’d worn for years now, was rather like the equivalent of stepping back into his childhood home again. He took her luggage from her, and Mimi’s disapproving expression shifted into something softer at the sight of him.

“Hello, John. I see you haven’t changed too terribly much.”

“Ah, you know me…I’m too lazy for any of that.”

“That’s certainly true.” But it was said with a hint of a smile, all the same.

All the way back to the flat, Mimi did much of the talking, informing John about the going-ons of the neighbors back home and of news pertaining to her sisters and other family members he hadn’t seen in some time (and some of whom he couldn’t really remember). Her hand tucked securely into the crook of his arm, Mimi marched gamely along, as always, with a determined stride that made her seem years younger than she really was.

The first significant hurdle to get over was the flat itself, which Mimi’s opinion of would be blatantly obvious and could set things off on the wrong foot spectacularly if found wanting. Just walking into the building, John noticed how her eyes gave the lobby a quick once-over, looking for water spots on the ceiling or possibly drug addicts lurking about. It must have passed inspection, because she only gave a tiny, short exhale as she followed John into the lift—a positive sign in her book.

He prayed to whoever was listening that both sets of neighbors gave him an easy time of things, for once, and it seemed that his wish had been granted when all was quiet out in the corridor.

John had done his best to pick things up in the flat a little—at the least, it looked better than it had been just a week before. His bedroom, where Mimi would stay overnight, had gotten the most thorough treatment, the weeks-ago flooding incident now patched up and his furniture dry.

His aunt looked around the flat, inspecting the tiny kitchen and the adjoining living room with the one squashy couch and threadbare chair John had picked up at the thrift store for ten quid. None of it added up to much, but it certainly didn’t look like the hovel Mimi had no doubt been conjuring images up of in her mind before now.

“And what do we think of the place?”

A small, rather quiet sigh. “It’ll do.”

“Such high praise! Didn’t expect to pass with flying colors.”

Mimi might have said something in response to that, but she was momentarily distracted by the arrival of Pepper, who wisely chose that moment to come slinking into the living room. John’s aunt’s face completely lit up, and she immediately abandoned her more rigid composure in favor of stooping down a little to try and call the cat over to her.

“Oh, John, he’s lovely! This is Pepper?”

Within minutes, she was sitting happily on the couch with the purring cat in her lap, and John was in the kitchen making her tea. Almost like being home again.

She was in a good mood by the time she finally got around to asking about Paul. “So this…new boyfriend of yours? You said we’d be seeing him tonight, yes?”

“Yes, Mimi, we’ll meet up with him later for dinner. And believe me, you’ll like him.”

Mimi kept any skeptical remarks at that to herself, instead pointing towards a worn textbook sitting on the end table by the couch. “Does that happen to be his, by any chance?”

It was an old book filled with music scales and other boring stuff for teaching that Paul used in his lesson plans sometimes. At the sight of it, John made a sort of chiding sound, moving forward to pick it up. “Oh yeah, that’s his…he stopped by the other day after work. Must have forgotten it here! We’ll run it along to him tonight.”

“Yes…we ought to,” Mimi said carefully, resuming her patting of Pepper. “So he’s a music teacher then, you said?”

“Yeah, he teaches at Holden—this school for rich kids. I guess even they’ve got a thing or two to learn about music.”

Mimi took a sip of her tea, choosing not to say anything for right now—but John was sure she’d be putting Paul on the spot later to make up for that. She was content, for now, to merely sit here and chat with him and hold Pepper, but inside, there was a coiled snake waiting to spring.

He had chosen a nicer restaurant to treat his aunt at dinner, and he could tell just sitting next to him in the cab on the way over there was already having a positive effect on Mimi…she was quicker with her smiles. Hopefully, that boded well for Paul.

He was waiting for them in the foyer of the restaurant, pacing around, and his face crumpled with either relief or anxiety when he caught sight of John and Mimi approaching outside. Seeing him through the glass door lifted John’s spirits considerably, and he ushered his aunt outside with a genuine grin on his face.

“Hello, love.” John moved forward to press a quick kiss to his cheek, and Paul played along beautifully.

“’Lo, John. And hello, Mimi—it’s lovely to meet you.”

He was all charm, John didn’t think even he could detect a note of bullshit in his voice, as Mimi appraised him for a moment and then gave her own polite smile. “Likewise. John’s already told me a bit about you.”

“Well, I hope it’s off to a good start.”

They found a table and sat down, Mimi electing to sit next to John and forcing Paul to find his place across from them. After they ordered their drinks, Mimi set about firing off a round of questions at Paul almost immediately, largely about his job.

“So…John tells me you’re a music teacher?”

“He tells you right. I’ve been teaching for a couple years now.”

“Music? It’s not very…practical, is it?”

She was testing the waters, old Meems—as if perhaps used to hearing a similar critique, Paul bounced back fairly quickly. “Well, it’s not your maths or your business classes, no—but I think music offers something else. Seeing a melody finally click in a kid’s head or watching them get the hang of a new instrument is worth as much as solving any multiplication table, I think.”

“Hear, hear!” John said, raising his glass, and a small, quick grin was flashed his way across the table.

Mimi didn’t even acknowledge the interjection, still speaking right to Paul. “And have you been teaching long?”

“A couple years now. This is my first stint down in London, though, I was up north before I moved here.”

“Where you lived before?”

“Oh, yeah—my whole family’s from Liverpool and thereabouts.”

Mimi quirked an eyebrow at that. “I have family who lived there as well. Where at in Liverpool?”

“Around Speke.”

“Oh, well…I see.” Not a right answer. John could tell by the slight purse of her lips. Mimi set great stock in all issues of class and upbringing, and it was plain that here, at least, Paul didn’t make the cut.

Paul must have sensed it too—certainly, Mimi’s slightly frosty, courteous but only just tone didn’t lessen any. “But I must say,” She finally relented, in the middle of cutting up her prime rib into neat, bite-sized pieces. “It  _does_ make for a nice change to see you’ve found someone with a proper job, John. It’s an improvement.”

Right in front of Paul too—she had no shame at all. John winced a little but tried to shrug it off. “Ah, you know me…always full of surprises.”

“Yes, well—‘surprise’ doesn’t always equal good.”

“Oh, Mimi, honestly—if you’re going to just pick away at everything, we can go ahead and leave—”

They snipped back and forth at each other for a little while, again like old times, while Paul took measured sips of his drink and glanced hopelessly around him, as if looking for divine providence to come and save him. When Mimi finally excused herself to the loo, she threw her napkin down with a great deal of force and then marched off, chin held defiantly rigid.

John sighed and rubbed at his temples while Paul carefully set his glass down. “So, er…she seems nice.”

“Oh, stop. Bleeding hell. Can’t take her anywhere, honestly.”

“She’s…really not so bad,” Paul said, picking at the pasta on his plate. “She reminds me a bit of you, in a way.”

John covered his mouth and stared at him in something like real offense, so Paul was quick to amend himself. “I mean—in a good way. She’s obviously clever. Relentless, like. It’s there.”

He wasn’t quite sure if he was being complimented or not—but it didn’t seem like a bad thing. Just as he was opening to say something, Paul beat him to the punch with a short exhale.

“I’ll say though, that…you weren’t wrong. About how tonight would go or anything.”

John gave a weak chuckle at that, lifting his glass again. “I think we both could use stronger drinks.”

Underneath the table, Paul moved his foot forward and prodded John’s with it, a warm, companionable gesture, and a warmth settled in him that had nothing to do with what he was drinking.

Mimi didn’t like to stay out for very long or very late—at this time of the evening, she was usually curled up in her armchair with a mystery novel, a cat in her lap, and her final cup of tea. “John,” She announced primly within minutes of returning to the table. “I would like to leave now.”

Again, he exchanged that quick, fleeting look with Paul, who was plainly trying to bite back a smile before it came to life on his lips. “Yeah, that…sounds like a plan to me. I’ll get the bill.”

It was chilly outside the restaurant as Mimi smartly buttoned up her coat, then looked around to face Paul. “Well, Paul—it was quite nice to meet you. Good luck with finishing term shortly.”

“Thank you. Take care, and have a safe trip back home.”

She gave a quick nod before turning to go, and John rolled his eyes as he faced Paul, speaking in a low voice. “Honestly…that was almost good for her.”

“I’ll remember that,” Paul said as he folded his arms, and suddenly, an image popped into John’s mind.

“Oh, bugger—I meant to bring that book you left behind over tonight, and totally forgot about it. Or maybe Mimi forgot to remind me.”

“s all right, I’ve got to stop by and pick up my things anyway. Maybe tomorrow night?”

The prospect was a nice one. “Yeah, uh…I’ve got to take Mimi to the train station, but when I’m back, I’ll let you know. Maybe you could stick around for a little while, I mean—watch a movie or something.”

Paul seemed to like the idea. “Sounds good to me. And I guess we’d better…talk about Mike’s wedding then too. It’s coming up quick.”

John pulled a face at that. “Oh, right. Can't believe they'd let you squeeze me onto the guest list last-minute like that."

"Like I said...they're too pleased to care much."

"Well…one last hurrah, and then it’ll be over for us, right? We won’t have to keep doing this shite anymore.”

Maybe it was just the light and shadows playing tricks, but something seemed to flicker across Paul’s face for a moment before he finally nodded. “Yeah, it’ll be over then. And I promise—my relatives are just as nosy as Mimi, so you’ll get a taste of that yourself.”

“Oh, joy…can hardly wait.”

“John!” Mimi called briskly from beside the curb. “Are you going to get us a cab or no?”

“No, Meems—figured I’d let us camp out here for the night instead!”

“You’d better go,” Paul pointed out. “Wouldn’t want her any more mad at you than she already is.”

“Oh, forget about it…she’s too touchy, that one.” Before he made to go, he paused—and then he leaned in, and pressed another quick, impulsive kiss to Paul’s cheek. His head had turned a little, at just the right moment that he nearly kissed the corner of his mouth instead, and it all was just enough to feel a slight scrape of his faint stubble against his face. Oddly, that sent a bit of a thrill up his spine.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” John told him quickly then, moving away to rejoin his aunt—Paul seemed frozen for a moment before he finally lifted his hand in farewell.

As they settled into the back of the cab, Mimi clasped her hands around the purse in her lap and declared, “Well. He really isn’t so bad, John.”

“Stop, you old flatterer. Poor Paul’s probably blushing right now.”

“Listen to me. What matters—what really matters—is that this is someone who could make you happy. Do you understand me? That’s all I want for you.”

John sobered up at that, settling back in his seat. “Yeah, I…I do understand that. Don’t worry. I’m happy.”

He’d been happy with Stuart—happy enough. Funny how he hadn’t thought of him on his own tonight at all, up until now.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again! i feel like we're slowly coming to the end of the fic here--not one more chapter, but i'm thinking two. it's a bit crazy for me to believe that this silly little fic of mine has gathered over 1k views, but i'm so grateful for it, and everyone who has spent any time reading it. i hope you all enjoy the update, because i enjoyed writing it a lot. happy holidays!

In the time leading up to Mike McCartney’s wedding, there was little else for John to do but bide his time and continue to see the groom-to-be’s brother fairly often. Paul had assured him he need not memorize the name of every single one of his family members going to be present, given that he would have to introduce him to them all anyway, but John had to act like he had  _some_  semblance of a clue into Paul’s life.

 _nobody’s going to be giving you a quiz about it! don’t worry about it,_ Paul had texted him, but John wasn’t wholly convinced—if Paul’s family was anything like his own, simply bumbling around and picking choices from the appetizer tray wasn’t going to endear him to anyone. True, he’d never have to see any of them again after that one night, but he didn’t want Paul to catch any hell for it.

_OK but i don’t want to get anyone’s knickers in a twist because i can’t remember aunt mildred is your favorite relative. you know?_

y _ou won’t. but i guess knowing the aunts’ names would be helpful. we need to meet up again._

_i detect a note of urgency._

_maybe a little. i’ve got to tell you something._

They agreed to meet up again at the café near both the bookshop and the school, a meeting point that they’d found convenient in the past ever since their first encounter there. It would have to be after school hours for Paul, and so John left the shop for the evening a little early.

“You can man the shop until closing time, right, Cyn? Or woman it, whichever?”

From behind the magazine she was flipping through behind the till, Cyn gave him a glance as John pulled on his jacket. “Yes, John—I can manage the shop. Where are you off to in such a rush?”

“Not a rush—I’m just meeting someone, is all.”

“Oh, really?” Her brows crinkled in a knowing look. “Just someone, or… _someone?”_

“If you weren’t such a life-saver, Cyn, I’d write you up for subordination,” John pointed a finger in her direction, which she appraised with a tiny smirk. “As it is…I implore you to mind your own business.”

“It’s all right, you don’t have to tell me.  _That_ reaction says enough.”

John spluttered out a protest that seemed to fall on deaf ears…and in any case, they both knew that he’d never written an employee up in his life, not even when he’d found out that that Darren kid was occasionally conducting drug deals from his post as a book stacker. He’d given him the boot, to be sure, only to have Cyn carefully remind him afterwards that loudly suggesting he ought to at least have gotten his number before he let him go wasn’t quite appropriate.

He hurried down the street to the café, feeling in better spirits after leaving work behind him. Through the wide window at the front of the place, John could see Paul already seated at one of the tables, legs in a chair out in front of him, and another dark-haired, bespectacled man sitting with him as they chatted over papers and coffee. That he hadn’t been counting on.

“’lo there!” John said as he entered the café. They both greeted him in turn, and John threw his rucksack down before taking a seat opposite them.

“John, this is Ivan Vaughan,” Paul introduced the man with him. “He teaches history over at Holden.”

“Aha, another teacher—Paul might have mentioned you.” Maybe. He couldn’t exactly remember.

“I don’t mean to interrupt any time together here,” Ivan looked back and forth between them with a sly sort of smile. “But as you might know, John—we’re working on planning the school’s annual Christmas show.”

John gave Paul a look of unabashed glee at that. “Oh, really? Funny how Paul hasn’t mentioned that…”

Paul rolled his eyes. “It’s not much of a big deal. The students put on a pageant and sing a couple songs.”

“Sounds like a jolly good time.”

“Are you coming?” Ivan asked him, seeming genuinely curious. “I would have thought maybe with Paul directing it and all…”

“Oh, I’m sure that I will be.”

Ivan drained his drink and set the empty coffee cup down. “I’m going to get another cup—anyone need anything?”

They both murmured a negative, and John waited until he was out of earshot and had joined the lengthy queue before leaning over to Paul, a smug grin already on his face.

Paul swiftly held a hand up. “I don’t want to hear a word.”

“What I was  _going_ to say is that…I’m sure it’s quite lovely. A real show-stopper. The best Christmas pageant the world’s ever seen.”

“Lay off,” Paul instructed him, though it looked like he was fighting a smile. “At least Ivan’s got a good head for music too—it isn’t going to be a half-bad program.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Meanwhile, while we’re here…” He lowered his voice even further. “Just what exactly does your mate Ivan know about us?”

Only now did Paul look a bit uncomfortable, fiddling with the pencil in his hand. “Well, I…I dunno, I’m sorry, John, but I was talking to him about you and it just sort of slipped out—”

“What did?”

“It’s just we’ve been keeping up the ruse for a fair bit now—and I may have referred to you as my boyfriend.  _May_ have. I didn’t really mean to, but then it was too late…”

He looked anxious, as if expecting John to be cross with him, instead, he gave more of a saucy wink. “Can’t resist talking about me then, can you? Don’t blame you, love—we’ll just run with it.”

Paul didn’t seem altogether relieved. “But we can’t, I mean…we’ve got to try and keep this contained, don’t we? The less people that know, the better. Now Ivan expects you to show up at this Christmas program because of me.”

“We’ll say I got sick or something. And then I guess we’ll have to come up with a break-up story.”

“So which one of us will have been cheating or something?”

The easy grin slipped from John’s face. “No. Not cheating. We’ll…we’ll work on that later. It ain’t over yet.”

“I’m afraid it’s not. And John, I’ve got to tell you…” Paul peered over to make sure Ivan was still stuck in the queue before he moved forward again, their knees brushing under the table. “I’m not sure why…I haven’t let you know before. Mike’s getting married up north, and I’ve got to be there for the rehearsal dinner on Thursday night. The actual wedding is on Friday. They’ve got everybody in a hotel nearby, y’know, but it means that…it means we’ll need to stay those two nights.”

Even more than before, he looked like he was bracing himself for a bad reaction. John mulled it over for a minute, then shrugged, reaching out to pick off a bite of the scone Paul had and pop it in his mouth. “Oh, well. We’ll come back Saturday then?”

“Yeah. I don’t mean…I mean, that’s so much to ask, if you wanted to bail, I’ll come up with some excuse—”

“I said I’d do it. In for a penny, in for a pound, right?”

Paul gawked at him for a moment, then gave a bit of a shaky chuckle, raking his fingers through his hair. “Christ—nothing throws you, does it?”

“Not anymore,” John said lightly. “What’s two nights, anyway? I’m sure they’ve got you in a nice enough room.”

“Well, yeah, as they thought it was just me at first…there’s a couch with one of those pull-out beds, so. We’ll be fine.”

“OK, then—say hello to your new bunkmate. I’ve been told I snore sometimes.”

“I can live with that.”

John’s hand was still lying on the table, and Paul reached out to give it a squeeze. “I’ve got to thank you too, John. This is…I think more than both of us ever expected going into it. But it gets my family off my back for a little while.”

“Can’t put a price on that, son.”

There was a slight pause, and then Paul said carefully, “Funny to think it only started because of Stuart. Have you…made any progress on that front?”

“We’ve texted a couple times,” John said nonchalantly. “I think he’s coming round. We’ll see, uh…what else he has to say, but it’s more than what’s happened in months.”

Paul’s smile seemed the tiniest bit forced. “That’s good. I mean…I’ll be glad if it works.”

“So will I.”

They were interrupted by Ivan finally returning, a fresh cup of coffee in hand. “Not intruding on anything too private, am I?”

A swift glance was exchanged, and Paul shrugged. “Nothing of the sort. Why don’t you tell John  _all_ about everything the Christmas program involves?”

By the time John finally headed for home, he was completely overwhelmed with the very detailed account Ivan had given him of the Christmas play, and the painstakingly long process it took to make their music selections for the concert portion of it. Paul seemed to be enjoying it rather too much.

When he trooped down the corridor to head into his flat, he was unfortunately just in time to catch Mick and Keith exiting theirs—but they were having such a heated conversation between themselves, they didn’t even notice him. “For fuck’s sake, Keith, I’ve only told you a hundred times—you _know_ how I feel about smoking!”

“And I’ve told _you_ , there’s a lot worse that I could be doing—”

“Is that supposed to make me feel any better? You think I want you to get all sick and shite like that?”

Keith looked ready to angrily retort, but clapped eyes on John just then. He gave Mick a nudge with his elbow, who immediately tried to put on a front of propriety for his neighbor’s sake.

“Oh…hello there, John.”

“Er…hi.” John had been trying his best to edge along the wall and pray that they didn’t see him, but no such luck. He was still about to try and awkwardly pardon himself before slipping inside his flat, but seeing the two of them reminded him of something.

“So, I don’t…mean to interrupt this little chat you’re having. But being as that I did you two a favor and watched Jack one weekend, I was wondering if you could come and feed Pepper for a couple days while I’m away.”

Someone would have to do it—and no, he didn’t exactly like them, but they were close by. And he had to admit that they took good care of their dog, so looking after just one cat shouldn’t present much of a problem.

Keith nodded, looking grateful for the subject change, but Mick did all the talking. “That ought to be OK. Just say when and leave us a key.”

“Right. Thanks.”

By the time he finally scurried off, Mick and Keith were heading towards the lift and continuing to argue. John hardly cared, so long as they didn’t continue it in raised voices in their flat next door later tonight—the squabbling was about as bad as the obnoxiously loud sex he had to overhear.

Lying down on the couch with a TV dinner, he texted a couple of his friends to see what they were up to—Ringo had picked up an extra shift bartending, and George wasn’t around tomorrow because he was busy with somebody else.

 _who’s more important than me?_ He replied to him, complete with little winking face. It didn’t do him much good, as George’s reply was awfully brief.

 _just with another friend._   _maybe you ought to see more of paul given he’s the new bf now._

But George didn’t know about the weekend coming up and the wedding he’d have to endure—the second one, but painful for a different reason. He didn’t fancy the idea of hearing another lecture if he told George how things were still going on with him and Paul. But just as he was thinking of another message to send, a new text buzzed through…and from Stu, of all people, causing him to nearly drop the phone on his face.

_how about drinks in  a couple weekends? just the two of us—my treat._

A result. At the very least, a positive sign, and John grinned as he mulled over the proper response. He’d get through the wedding, and the week after, he’d have something wonderful to look forward to, an extra incentive to see things through here. Brilliant.

_sounds good to me. i’ll let you pick. just no more weird craft brewery places._

_done :)_

A part of him wanted to take a screenshot and text it over to Paul, to prove that things were working, baby steps were being taken—and getting roped into this whole mess hadn’t been for nothing on either of their ends. But at the last moment, something held him back. It didn’t seem right just now, and he couldn’t quite puzzle that one out.

***

Given the time of year, it wasn’t unusual for George to have to place orders from farther-off locations in order to keep the flowers stocked in his shop. Many greenhouses further down south kept running operations year-round, and purchasing new inventory in bulk became even more of a necessary task than it was in warmer months. Sometimes, his greenhouse contacts sent deliveries up to him, and other times, he drove down there to collect the order himself.

If he could help it, he usually preferred the second option. The chance to escape the city for a bit and get out and drive, even if was just the clunky van he bought secondhand for shop-related purposes, seldom failed to tempt him into making most of the trips himself. Going over his inventory late one evening, it became clear to him that he was due for another pick-up, and just as a point of fact—he’d need to get more of a kind of flower Klaus wanted for his gallery.

“So it’s the calla lilies for the lobby I’ll need to get,” He informed him over the phone, tapping his pen against the notepad on the counter with his free hand. “And then I’ll be about finished with getting everything you want. All that’s left to do then is put it all together.”

“Sounds marvelous,” Klaus told him. “I got your last email—I think those are just the kind of ferns I’m looking for. You can laugh, but I had no idea there were so many varieties.”

“You’d be surprised. Same goes for lilies too, you know—but I know a bloke down in Crawley who wholesales all kinds of ‘em. I’ll run down and see him on Saturday.”

“Saturday? Perhaps this is…an unusual request, but could I come with you? To get an idea for what’s there? It isn’t that I don’t trust your judgement, but I’d like to—oh—get a feel for it.”

“No, uh…not unusual. I’ve had customers do that before.” Mostly wedding planners at their trade, who wanted a hands-on approach to the blooms being selected for their clients, but still. “If you’d really like, I’m planning to leave around eight.”

So it was that he found himself with a passenger on the journey down. To Klaus’ credit, he didn’t say anything about the worn-down state of the van, but climbed inside and made a show of looking around.

“What…no ukulele this time?”

 “Not this time. Fasten that seat belt, would you—no promises about my driving. Just hang on.”

As they set off down the road, an easy conversation picked up about their respective days—George had had another mass order for a party recently, and since then, the client had checked in about every other day to fuss or make changes. “And it’s driving me up a fucking  _wall,_ if she’s having some kind of theme to go with it all, it’s got to be just ‘Random Chaos.’”

Klaus gave a little laugh at that. “Isn’t all chaos random?”

“Is it? I think the shop’s itself more of an organized sort.”

“Your shop isn’t chaotic that way, George. You have a good business. Be proud of it.”

“I am,” George hastily assured him. “But sometimes, it’s…I dunno. Sometimes I think maybe I should take a break from it.”

“I can understand that,” Klaus told him. “We’re both…what is it? Married to our jobs, I think.” Something in his voice sounded a bit sadder at that.

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” George was quick to say—mostly for Klaus’ own benefit. He didn’t want to see him discouraged by such a thing.

“Isn’t there? Astrid said it too, when things were falling apart with her…perhaps there’s something wrong when it keeps you from doing anything else. Or committing to anyone else. Or when you have to get dinner closer to ten at night.”

His tone wryer, he’d steered the conversation back into safer waters with his last remark—for now. George was grateful for that, but part of him remained troubled…because Klaus certainly wasn’t wrong. Hadn’t he had the same thought himself, over and over again?

They chatted about work for a while longer before Klaus finally put an end to it. “Oh, listen to us…I spend all day at the gallery, you spend all day at the shop, and that is still all we can talk about. Enough, enough. Tell me how you’re doing. How are your friends?”

“Well, John is…busy. He’s uh, sort of found someone new…I guess.” In truth, George had no clue what the hell to call his fake-but-real relationship with Paul, but didn’t know if he could explain the whole thing to Klaus.

“He has?” Klaus seemed genuinely happy to hear it, a smile breaking out on his face, and something in George’s heart flipped to see it. “That’s good news. Moving on is…it can be hard for some people.”

“You’re not kidding,” George muttered.

“It’s hard, but…very worth it in the end, I think. We can’t stay stuck in place forever.”

“Or in the same kind of bullshit cycle. That’s no better either.”

“I don’t mean to intrude…Stuart’s told me about you and…Pattie, is it? You’re seeing her now?”

“No, not at all,” He said, and it didn’t hurt at all to admit the truth. “I think that’s…got to be about well and done. We’re not eighteen, you know?”

“You want something else?”

“Yeah…yeah, I think I do. Something…real. God, but that sounds stupid, though—”

“I don’t think that it does,” Klaus smoothly interrupted him, and his hand resting on his thigh moved a little, shifting closer to George—but it stalled again. “I don’t think it does at all.”

There was one swift, surprisingly breathless moment where they briefly locked eyes at a stop in the road—and George changed the subject over to something safer, namely, his upcoming plans to go home and see his family. Klaus hadn’t seen his own in several long months, and talking about this led into discussion of Berlin, where he was from…George, of course, had never been there, but hearing his companion talk about it soon proved he could paint a picture in one’s mind as easily as he would physically on canvas. In this way, the road trip went by quickly.

Robert, the man who operated one of George’s favorite greenhouses, was pleased to show an appreciative Klaus around when they got there. As the rest of the world turned bleaker and cold, it was here and in similar places where bursts of color still shone, rows and rows of plants stretching on securely in the spot of warmth over the winter. Klaus got to pick the exact flowers he wanted, the two of them making their selections before heading back outside and loading the van.

The gardens were barren this time of year, but it was easy to see how they stretched on too. There wasn’t a house in sight, just the earth around them, and Klaus turned around to look at George as he was closing the van doors.

“Is this the kind of place you want yourself?”

George took a breath of the clear air, untouched by any city smog, and gave a nod. “Yeah, it is. Someday, I hope.”

“I hope so too. It’s beautiful out here.” A wooden fence bordered the one empty field, which Klaus now leaned on as paused to light a cigarette before they went.

“Mind if I….?” George gestured, and Klaus fished out another one, handing it over to him. Their fingers met, and something in George didn’t want to let go.

They stayed there for a while longer, looking out at the sprawling country view beyond them—at least George did some of the time. The rest of it, he was stealing glances at who was next to him. For a while, it had seemed like there was no shortage of things to talk about, and whatever had been an anxious knot in his chest earlier had long since undone. It was easy to talk with him, to laugh with him as he would any other friend—barring that occasional random fluttering that seemed to unfurl in him. Maybe he looked a little too long at the way Klaus’ lips parted to exhale a perfect plume of smoke. Distantly, a part of his mind reflected on the fact that anyone kissing him would taste that tobacco, and he couldn’t think why such a bloody random—but very distracting—thought would have occurred to him.

A silence had fallen—one that wasn’t uncomfortable, an easy enough sort of lull, but George couldn’t shake how inexplicably jittery he still felt. Klaus checked his watch in the end and made a soft sound.

“Oh, the day’s just going by…maybe we ought to leave?”

“I lost track of time,” George said—which was something of a lie. He’d briefly lost track, but the truth of the matter was that he hadn’t cared enough. He’d regret it later, but not here and now.

There was that smile again. “This was good, I think. I liked taking the trip.”

“Yeah. Me too. I…I almost can’t believe you were free today at all,” George confessed, but wished that he hadn’t when Klaus looked puzzled.

“Oh? Why is that?”

“Oh, well…you know. Fancy art gallery events going on and all, or like…well, I would have thought you’d be out with someone else on a Saturday. A girlfriend or something.”

Klaus seemed almost amused by that. “I haven’t got a girlfriend, George. Or a boyfriend, as it happens. I’m not seeing anyone right now.”

“What? But you’re, I mean…you,” George finished, somewhat lamely, though his pulse was skittering like it was flailing on ice.

“Well, like you said it earlier…I don’t want just anything anymore. I want something real too.”

Their eyes had met again, and it finally occurred to George just how close they really were—they’d somehow wound up this way over the course of their time together. They were both still leaning on the railing with their elbows propped up, and George’s hand just had to reach out—it landed on Klaus’ arm, nearly tracing the exposed bit of skin there, almost longing to go and find the pulse thumping by his wrist, to tangle with his long, fine-boned fingers, and he so nearly did, he nearly did when he heard Klaus’ breath hitch just a bit, just enough—

He turned it into something of a brisk, friendly sort of clap. At the last moment. “Listen to us now—going soft all the way.”

It was like a firecracker taking off and landing right into a puddle, a burst of light dashed out immediately. And something in Klaus’ expression flickered for a moment before it fell into a smile tinged with a wry kind of sadness.

“That’s what happens when you get old.”

Unlike the journey down here, which had been full of talking over the music, it was the radio that made most of the noise on the return trip. George couldn’t say why, but he knew he didn’t like it, and something felt rather forced in Klaus’ goodbye when they parted ways at the shop later.

“So…you’ll be over to put it all together on Friday?”

“Yeah. Bright and early, hopefully done with most of it before you get a lot of people in there.”

“That sounds good.” A stilted, slightly awkward pause, and then Klaus nodded resolutely. “I’ll see you then.”

It felt like something had gone wrong, somehow, but George couldn’t say just what it was. In any case, he told himself as he grouped all the plants he’d need together in the back, it didn’t matter. He was only here to do one job for Klaus, collect a paycheck, and then…well, that would be that. The thought shouldn’t have made him as quietly disappointed as it did.

***

As neither he nor Paul owned a car (and John, a city boy through and through, had never even gotten a driver’s license), the pair of them were going to have to take the train up to Nottingham, which meant at least a three-hour journey. John had his bag all packed, complete with something nicer to wear to the wedding the following night, and was carrying a large cup of coffee when he met Paul at the railway station early in the morning.

“You do realize this is awfully early for me on a day where I don’t have to be up for work?”

“Me too,” Paul told him, and just then lifted a hand to stifle a yawn. It looked like he was only recently out of bed, his hair still a bit mussed and stubble just sprinkled on his jaw. That and the oversized jumper made him look rather cozy—John could envision crawling back under warm covers with him like that.

He blinked, banishing the random thought that had popped up in his mind, as Paul gestured over to the idling train with his own morning coffee. “Shall we, then?”

They found their seats and after much shuffling around of their bags, finally settled down. “You can take a nap on the way up if you want,” Paul pointed out as he produced his rucksack, pulling out a slim laptop and a stack of papers.

John eyed them suspiciously as he took a sip of coffee. “What’re you planning on doing?”

“Oh, this? I can’t just leave school for two days without paying for it. I’ll be doing work.”

“That sucks. Well, if you need me for anything…I might just take you up on the nap idea.”

As the train started moving, he did close his eyes and try to settle down in the seat for a quick kip—but after a long while of just barely dozing, he soon grew fed up with the futile effort. Cracking his eyes open, he peered over at Paul, who was typing away on his laptop with his earbuds in.

“What are you listening to?”

“Bored already, eh?” But Paul was smiling a little as he fished one earbud loose and handed it over to him. “Here.”

He leaned his head closer to Paul’s against their respective seats, letting them brush together as the sound of a City and Colour song filled his one ear.

John looked past Paul and out the window at the view speeding past them. It was comfortable too, sitting close to him here, and he had just let his eyes close again when the song ended and [an old Macy Gray tune](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P2vIkYohP-s) started up instead.

He had to laugh a little at that, casting Paul an amused look. “Really?”

Paul didn’t look remotely abashed, nodding along to the music. “It’s a good song! I’ve got nothing to defend to you.”

“…it  _is_ a good song,” John admitted, and before too long, both of them were mouthing along to the words.

_“I try to say goodbye and I choke,_

_Try to walk away and I stumble…”_

They spent much of the rest of the trip like that—Paul continued to do his work, but John didn’t have to interrupt him once or poke him to try and get the music changed. He liked what he was hearing, almost as if he was listening to his own library instead. Earlier, he’d told Paul he was glad that he’d decided to come into his shop when he did, and not just because of how he’d helped him out with Stuart…but for getting the chance to just meet him too. And a part of him hoped that when they made the return trip back, they’d be able to sit here like this again, and maybe they could part as unlikely friends.

Maybe. He opened his mouth to say something about it and then closed it again, the words dying on his tongue. But he could hope.

Their hotel wasn’t far from the railway station in Nottingham, and so when they finally arrived, they trundled down the pavement with their belongings in tow—Paul taking special care not to crinkle the bag carrying his tuxedo. Check-in went smooth enough, the girl behind the counter handing over the room keys, and as they headed to the lift Paul went about explaining the evening.

“So…Angie’s the one that coordinated all the rooms. I think she’s got all the guests who needed them sort of grouped near each other, including herself and Dad, so I expect she’s already here.”

“Running the whole circus here, I take it?”

“And how. Angela—the other Angela, Mike’s fiancée—and her parents hardly got a word in edgewise.”

John could understand that. “You’ve met Mimi—she’d be much the same.”

They went down the carpeted corridor to their room, which Paul clicked open before they stepped inside. At first glance, it looked much like any other hotel room, designed with lots of beige and a brown carpet, the bathroom off to one side. A desk was pushed into one corner, taking up much of the floor space—the rest was chiefly occupied by a king-sized bed.

“Er…” John looked around, then turned back to Paul. “Didn’t you say we had a room with a smaller bed and a couch too?”

“Yeah, we were supposed to!” Paul’s brows furrowed together, plainly troubled. “Angie must have fucked it up somehow—this is definitely the right room number. Let me give her a ring.”

John sat down on the edge of the bed as Paul called his stepmother, who, as he had predicted, was already in the building herself and unpacking her things. She came over from down the corridor, frowning sharply at Paul.

“There’s no need to raise a ruckus, Paul, there was simply a little mix-up, and I thought it was all to the good since your poor Uncle Albert’s had that bad back for so long now. The couch will be better for him.”

“But—”

“And hello to you, John,” Angie fixed him with a beam, plainly delighted to see him. “It was  _so_ good of you to come! Everyone is just thrilled you’re here.”

“I’m happy to be here,” John said, hopefully convincingly, with a smile of his own. “Good of you to make room for me on short notice.”

“Or lack thereof,” Paul cut in. “Angie, couldn’t you—”

“No, I couldn’t,” Angie said waspishly, then looked back and forth between him and John. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, we’re not  _prudish—_ we thought you and John could share a bed!”

Thankfully, John managed to keep his gaze averted from Paul’s, or he might have burst out laughing. “It’s no trouble at all, really,” He spoke up before Paul could even try, moving swiftly ahead. “We can certainly share, right, love?”

“…yeah. Yeah, of course we can.”

Angie seemed relieved, and gave John an almost conspiratorial wink. “Well, that’s all settled then. Remember, rehearsal dinner is at five tonight. I’ll let you two get unpacked!”

She bustled from the room and snapped the door shut behind her—almost right away, Paul groaned, flopping back on the bed with his face buried in his hands. John twisted himself around so he was lying near him, putting his feet up too and folding his hands across his chest.

“So. Are we in a conundrum or no?”

Paul groaned, lowering his hands. “I don’t know what to say—apologize, maybe?”

“Bugger your apology. I don’t care. We’ll make it work.”

He looked over at him. “You’re sure you don’t mind? I bet we could just find another room for one of us easily enough.”

John waved a dismissive hand at that. “Forget it. Unless it really bothers you?”

“It doesn’t,” Paul assured him quickly. “We can definitely…share, y’know. It’ll be fine.”

They got settled in and ready for first the wedding rehearsal and then the dinner, John bracing himself for the hundreds of questions that were soon to come his way. Before they turned to leave, Paul paused in the doorway, and reached out to grab his hand again. It felt comforting, good to have something to hold.

“I’ll help you out,” He reassured him. “Just don’t wander too far.”

The wedding was taking place at a church in the city, made with gleaming grey stones and looming rather impressively. “Mike would have been just fine with getting married in Dad’s back garden,” Paul explained to John as their cab pulled up along the curb. “But Angela’s family insisted. I guess they’ve got some money lying around.”

There was already a small group of people waiting outside the church, and when Paul stepped out to greet them all with friendly hugs or handshakes, John thought he knew who they were. Certainly, he recognized Jim too in all the crowd, and was about to say something to him when he was intercepted by a bunch of others.

“So you’re John! I’m Mike…good time as any to be meeting you, I reckon.” Mike moved forward to shake John’s hand with a grin, and right away, he could see how the resemblance between him and his brother, so pronounced when they were children, had faded over the years. At his side was a slender, dark-haired woman just beaming away, who introduced herself as Angela, the bride-to-be.

“Lovely to meet you both,” John said. “And congratulations! Many happy returns to the happy couple.”

They both beamed again, and Mike gave him a wink. “It wasn’t too much trouble to get you squeezed in here—we were all just so pleased you really existed in the first place!”

Paul gave a quick, warning sort of cough at that, moving forward to lightly jostle Mike in a sort of brotherly gesture. “That’s enough of that—don’t you have your own love life to be attending to right now anyway?”

“Well, I think it’s pretty well in order by now,” Angela gave an airy laugh and squeezed Mike’s hand, and he pulled a mock sort of attempt at a grimace, feigning bravery for their benefit.

When Angela turned away to speak to another lady who could have been her mother, Mike lowered his voice to speak to Paul and John in an intimate huddle. “It’s all over for me now, lads. I can kiss all my freedom goodbye, yeah?”

Paul looked like he longed to say something, but Mike too was summoned away by the sets of parents, and John shook his head.

“Mental. If you don’t want to get married, then don’t.”

“I know,” Paul groaned. “Just…try to keep all those very true but very unhelpful thoughts to yourself for the time being, all right?”

While the wedding party ran through the rehearsal, John sat down in one of the pews to wait the ordeal out. Though Angie made herself busy bustling around and speaking to the vicar, Paul and Mike’s father took a seat a short space away from John.

“It was good of you to come, John,” Jim said warmly, leaning in to keep his voice low as they spoke. “And it’s good to see Paul looking so happy.”

That made him feel both relieved and guilty. “I think the feeling’s mutual.”

Jim smiled, turning to watch as the wedding party assembled around the alter, Mike and Angela’s hands joined together. “It’s so good to see them both like this—I only wish Mary were here to see it too.”

There was a pause like he was waiting for John to say something, and really, his brain was working double time to try and remember that name, but nothing came up. At his silence, Jim carried on. “Paul and Mike’s mother. Hasn’t he…told you about her?”

“Oh, I…yeah, ‘course he has. And I’m sure you’re right about her.”

That lie hurt a little more to get through his teeth, especially at the softer expression on Jim’s face. Had Paul ever once mentioned his mother to John? He didn’t think so…though maybe he had wondered about that. He’d simply assumed that his parents were split up, but if he was ever going to meet his mum, it would surely be at his little brother’s wedding.

He couldn’t pretend like he wasn’t curious, but he would be willing to let it go for the time being until he found some other way of cunningly bringing it up. As it happened, he didn’t need to wait very long for that to occur.

Dinner with the family and wedding party had gone smoothly enough—there were so many assorted people who John had been introduced to that it was impossible to remember them all, but nobody seemed to fault him for that. In any case, the McCartney side of the family was a warm, chatty bunch, everyone embracing each other when they met and swapping stories in no time at all.

“Remind me later, dear,” One of Paul’s aunts, a woman nicknamed Gin, had told him with a friendly wink. “I’ve got plenty of stories about our Paulie growing up that will give you a laugh.”

“Oh, really now…you’ll have my full and undivided attention when and if the time comes.”

Auntie Gin’s threat clearly hadn’t stuck with Paul so much as another conversation did. When they made it back to their hotel room later, both of them full and content from dinner, they navigated their way around each other to get changed for bed—well, they knew they’d have to cross this bridge sooner or later.

“So…I hope the family behaved themselves at least a little bit tonight,” Paul remarked, pulling off his shirt and rooting around in his suitcase for a new one.

“Oh, yeah…I mean. They’re great.” Already in his old sweatpants and a T-shirt himself, John had just been about to remove his glasses and place them on the nightstand next to the bed—but paused in the act. They didn’t need to go right away. This was a nice sight, after all, and—

“Well, then I hope _you_ behaved yourself,” Paul said with something of a knowing look, and John assumed an expression of innocence.

“Can’t be sure just _what_ you mean by that…” In any case, Paul was pulling a worn shirt over his own head, and so any thought of misbehaving was banished too. He moved his suitcase to the floor and then sat down on his own side of the wide bed, pausing for a moment before carrying on.

“I saw you talking to my dad back at the church. I guess that went…OK?”

John’s pulse seemed to skip a step. “Yeah, I…you know, he’s nice and all. He mentioned your mum.”

He dared to look over at him now, and Paul was chewing on his bottom lip, dipping his head in a slow kind of nod. “Yeah, I…I’m sure he’s thinking about her. I am too.”

John didn’t ask anything, didn’t prod—sometimes, it was better to wait. Paul pulled back the heavy covers on the bed and crawled under, keeping a respectable distance between the two of them as he settled down on his back before he spoke again.

“She died when I was fourteen. Cancer.”

Something in John seemed to have been expecting it. “…I know what that’s like. A little.”

Paul looked over at him. “Not to sound like an arse, but I really don’t—”

“It’s not the same, I know that. But I miss my mum too, sometimes. Mimi raised me, of course, but…I had a mum, you know. Once.”

There was a brief lull as Paul sort of held his breath for a moment, then let it out. “I…won’t lie that I was a little curious about why it was your aunt who brought you up. But I didn’t want to ask.”

“’s all right,” John assured him. “I didn’t ask about your mum either, did I? I bet you…well, I bet you miss her sometimes.”

“I do. Sometimes. It gets a little easier, y’know, the more time goes on, but it’s…it’s not something I’d wish on anyone,” Paul said quietly. “I’m sorry, John.”

“Don’t be,” He said, attempting to keep up a dismissive tone. He leaned over, flipping the switch that plunged the room into darkness before he settled down again, so Paul couldn’t see his face. “Julia wasn’t much of a mother. But I did love spending time with her, and I guess…sometimes I miss her too. But that was a long time ago.”

He already regretted letting the subject carry on as long as it had, nipping it in the bud now was likely the wisest course of auction—but then Paul closed the gap between them, reaching out to take the hand closest to him. John rolled over, lying on his side so he was facing him, and Paul gave their intertwined hands a squeeze.

“You don’t have to try and save too much face with me, John,” He pointed out gently. “But if you don’t want to talk about it, I understand that too. I don’t mind talking about Mum so much anymore—for a little while, I couldn’t even hear her name. It felt like nails on a blackboard. So many people loved her, though, she left a lot of good behind, and it got…easier. I just didn’t know if she was something I should talk about with you.”

“We’re honest with each other, right?” John pointed out with his best attempt at a grin. “It’s only everyone else we’re lying to.”

When Paul only managed a short laugh, John gave his hand a squeeze back. “Sorry—idiot me, the only thing I know how to do is put me foot in me mouth. But…there’s not much else for me to add about my mum, really. She left when I was little. Came back from time to time when I got older, I would go mad waiting for her to show up again. And then she was gone for good. It’s just, uh…how it was.”

And unlike Paul’s situation, it had never quite gotten that much easier to discuss for him—Stuart knew, of course, and both George and Ringo, but it had taken some time to work up to that. Here he was confessing all this to Paul in the dark, like kids swapping secrets at a slumber party. Intimate. Safe.

“Then I really am sorry. I’m sure she’d be proud of who you are today.”

 The flighty, free-spirited Julia would likely have no trouble at all with her bookshop-owning son, currently engaged in a fairly involved scheme to fake a romantic relationship for multiple different reasons and desired outcomes. The thought was so absurd, a strange bit of laughter almost burbled in John’s throat, but he kept it under lock. It was funny in a sense, sad in another, and he suddenly found he didn’t wish to discuss it any further.

“Yeah, I…I hope so.”

Paul seemed to sense that the conversation was winding down, especially when John moved his hand away. “But, er…anyway. Thanks for telling me about your mum, she really does sound lovely.”

“Of course. And you too. But maybe we’d better…call it a night now. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

“Right you are. Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight.”

There was silence for a few moments as they both lay there in the dark, and it was finally Paul who spoke up again. “For what it’s worth, John—my mum would have loved you. I know she would have.”

His voice was surprisingly soft, and John twisted around again to try and look at him—but now he was turned away, his back facing him. John looked at the outline of him in the faint glow from the streetlight outside filtering in, noting the illumination along him, the inexplicable urge to reach out and touch him welling strong within him…and then he turned away, fighting it off. But the desire raced through him, a live wire kind of shiver, and the lack of deep, measured breathing from just near him told him that he wasn’t the only one lying awake either.

**

The following morning ushered in such a kerfuffle it made the day of Ringo’s wedding look positively dull in comparison.

With most of the wedding party packed into the same hotel, there was a great deal of running up and down the corridors to get people ready to go and set up in the right place, dressed accordingly, and shuffled out the doors to head for the church. John did his best to stay as much out of the way as he could, sipping the tea he’d made for himself and talking to anyone he happened to encounter.

“Oh, no—Eliza, you’re looking for? I think she went that way.”

“No, Angie, I haven’t seen the vicar in at least a couple minutes now—”

“Well, no, I don’t think those shoes go with that dress, and it’s hardly a summer wedding, is it?”

Given that Paul had to be with the other groomsmen and his brother, John didn’t see him for some time—but he thought he got through the morning all right on his own. It was still a relief when it came time to settle down in the pews and wait for the ceremony to start, nobody else for him to talk to (despite the very chatty McCartney family side of the aisle), and just wait for the show to get on the road.

When the wedding party proceeded down the aisle, John looked around for the sight of him, and grinned when he saw Paul in his tuxedo, walking forward with one of Angela’s bridesmaids on his arm. His eyes too were sweeping the crowd, and when he caught sight of John, he thought he saw a wink sent in his direction. And he _did_ look awfully good in that tux.

It was a lovely wedding ceremony, even John, a complete stranger to just about everyone here, could appreciate that. He didn’t have to be a part of the immediate family to appreciate it though, to observe how happy everyone else here today was. Though he felt like an actor playing a role in a part he’d never really memorized, that much he could feel was real.

The party afterwards, held back in the ballroom of the hotel they were staying in, was something else entirely.

For the second time in just a couple months, John found himself sitting on the outskirts of a wedding reception—and feeling almost as strong an urge to keep well out of sight. At Ringo’s, it had been more of an issue of avoiding contact with Stu, here, it was to keep from shooting himself any more in the foot by chatting with any of Paul’s relatives. Unlike last time, he wasn’t playing a central role in the wedding party, so sitting back and letting the real family and friends here convene at their tables and on the space cleared for dancing seemed like the wisest move.

Of course, Paul couldn’t just abandon his groomsman duties yet, and John had last seen him out on the dance floor with the others after the first dance had gone by. He didn’t have any intentions of intruding just yet.

At least he had something to drink, and the champagne was good. His phone buzzed with a message, and fishing it out, he was surprised to see Stu’s name flashing across the screen.

_what are you up to tonight??_

He had to smile—well, it was good to hear from him, at the very minimum. And here, he could tell the truth about his whereabouts instead of lying about another night spent in front of the TV with a beer.

_with paul at a wedding. his brother’s. you?_

_a wedding? that’s on short notice. i didn’t think to ask if astrid could come to ringo’s._

Well, well—two could play this game, as it so happened.  _they had a couple people change their mind so there was room. they’re a fun lot._

_i bet so._

John was mulling over how to keep baiting him along when Paul approached him, finally freeing himself from a crowd of people. John looked up at him, putting his phone away.

“Are we having a smashing time, darling?”

“Oh, of course—I finally got a moment away. But c’mon, John…come and dance with me.”

A stunned, slightly nervous laugh he couldn’t quite hold back left John at that. “Do what now?”

“Dance. Surely, you’ve heard of it?” He gestured to the dance floor just behind them. “Besides, you’re my date and all—might look a bit funny if we didn’t share a dance or two.”

John studied his outstretched hand for a brief moment, then shrugged. “Aw, hell. Why not?” He took Paul’s hand and got to his feet, stopping to swig the champagne he had left and set the flute down. “Let’s make the most of it.”

A faster song was playing then, and that was easy enough to dance along to—not that John was any stupendous at it, but then, neither was anybody else really out here. The point was that they were all laughing, having fun, and that much, he could allow himself to do.

“I hope you weren’t totally bored to pieces earlier,” Paul told him in a lower voice over the music, and John gave a scoff.

“Who, me? Nah, weddings are old hat to me by now.”

“Still. I know it’s Mike’s day and everything, but I know it made people happy to know I wasn’t alone. I can’t thank you enough for doing that for me.”

He was looking at him so sincerely, so earnestly, that something in John seemed to break away a little—and he hoped he sounded casual enough when he responded. “Oh…you know, the whole thing really got started with me, I went and asked you—”

But he paused then—the song had ended and changed, shifting into the opening bars of [an Adele song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wA4ppvp2IzY) that he recognized. A slow song. Around them, couples were embracing and starting to sway in time with the music, and John looked back towards Paul. He seemed almost anxious, leaning towards him a little, and John beckoned him forward.

“Oh, come on—one dance, then. We’ve made it this far.”

Paul gave a little laugh at that. “So we have. All right.”

And he moved towards him, closing the distance between them and letting his arms twine around him. Slowly, they began to move in time with the music, and John felt himself relax, ease into the body in front of him a little more. Under the soft glow of the chandeliers above them, it only felt right to pull Paul closer and sway in time.

_“I dare you to let me be your one and only_

_I promise I’m worthy to hold in your arms…”_

Paul was humming along a little, John could just hear it as they moved in a bit of a circle—and he was close enough he could smell the faint trace of cologne on him, something that made him a bit dizzy. On an impulse, he moved to give him a spin around and Paul laughed, when he came back in, the hand that wasn’t clasped in John’s moving to steady himself against one of his shoulders.

“Oh, please—keep it up, and I’m going to have to dip you soon.”

“If you feel so inclined.” John waggled his eyebrows, but Paul’s expression had softened as they danced.

“I’m glad you’re here, John. I think it’s safe to say I wouldn’t want anyone to be my so-called date more than you.”

“I think there may have been a compliment somewhere in there,” John teased, but there was something very different on Paul’s face. He didn’t look like he was joking at all. It was somehow both very easy yet difficult to keep looking into his eyes as they moved together, and when the last bars finally faded out, neither of them noticed right away.

For a few heart pounding moments, they remained frozen in place, and John’s heart was thudding so fast he was surprised Paul couldn’t hear it against him—and then he found himself speaking up, voice curiously hoarse.

“D’you…maybe want to get out of here soon?”

Paul swallowed once, nodded. “Yeah. Soon.”

He couldn’t say what had changed—but it felt like waiting for the evening to wind down took even longer after that. They danced together a couple more times, and by the last one, there was scarcely a centimeter of space left between them. Whatever was going on, their bodies seemed to be responding to it, and when the guests finally started trickling out in droves, the electricity was all but dancing under John’s skin.

Paul hugged many of his relatives, promising to see them again for breakfast tomorrow before they departed, and clapped his little brother on the shoulder. By now, his bow tie was slightly crooked, and the sight of it was somehow endearing. Fortunately, they could just take the lift here upstairs to their room, and as they walked down the plush, carpeted hallway, their hands kept grazing against each other’s—it might have been an accident at first, but soon became rather deliberate, fingers just daring to dance against one another.

They climbed into the otherwise empty lift, Paul hit the floor number to go up, and then he moved to stand next to John. He was just opening his mouth, about to ask him a question, when Paul turned to face him and brought his hands to his face, and just like that, all else was forgotten.

Not forcefully, but definitely firmly, John found himself pressed up against the wall of the lift as Paul’s mouth came to meet his, and his own hands seemed to move of their own accord as well, to hold him tighter, to clutch him close. This was no staged kiss for the benefit of those they were trying to fool, no mere peck to be exchanged as a show, but something deep, something infinitely real, and something John had been starting to want so badly it was like eating a hole in him.

Hadn’t they been dancing along this for so long now? Somewhere, trying to act at a pretend relationship, they found something real—just what it was, John couldn’t say. And right now, he didn’t care to try and label it anyway. The only thing he was concerned about was already held tight in his hands.

They were still kissing fiercely, wrapped up in each other, when the lift came to a halt and the doors slid open. They very nearly missed it, but Paul, in the act of pausing to catch his breath, let out a laugh that was nearly against John’s mouth then as his eyes darted over to the open doors. “Oh, damn—c’mon, it’s our floor.”

They staggered out into the corridor, John feeling so light-headed and giddy all of a sudden that he almost stumbled, like he’d been drinking too much—but he knew neither of them really had been. This wasn’t something they could blame on copious amounts of alcohol. It was all them.

The door had barely snapped shut behind them before they were on each other again, pulling at clothes, tugging jackets off. Paul’s smart tuxedo jacket was cast to the floor, completely forgotten as its former occupant moved from John’s mouth to kiss down his neck instead.

Oh, hell—but neck kisses really were his weakness, Stu in particular had truly learned that, and as John’s head titled back a little in sheer delight, it was his ex’s name that just came slipping past his lips like a whispered plea.

A pause. Paul had stopped his ministrations, and John’s eyes flew open again. They hadn’t even bothered to turn the main light on yet, just the desk lamp still on, but Paul reached out now and flipped the switch, everything coming into sight. Before he looked away, John saw a shadow of something like disappointment on his face, despite the pink and kiss-swollen lips…but god, the sight of those was really being transmitted directly to his groin instead—

Still, he reached out now to try and loosely grab at his hand again. “Paul? What’s going on?”

Paul made a sound like a laugh, but it rang too hollow. “Nothing... I think it was me. God, I’ve been so stupid.”

He bent down to scoop up his fallen jacket and walked away from John, his rumpled shirt still untucked from his trousers and his hair a mess. He looked achingly beautiful, and John couldn’t help but trail after him.

“Stupid? How?”

“Just…because I was hoping, I guess. For no reason. I should have…I really ought to have known—”

John’s thoughts skittered hopelessly around, trying to land on something concrete. “Paul, I swear—known _what?”_

He whirled around at that, throwing his jacket down on the bed. “Did you not just hear yourself? You’re here with me now, and it’s still…it’s still Stu you’re thinking about. And it always has been. I _know_ that, and I’ve known that all along.”

John hesitated, but nodded then. “I mean…yeah. Yeah, that’s why we got involved in this whole thing, right? I never lied about that.”

“No…no, you didn’t. You’ve been honest with me all along, and I…I still thought maybe…” His voice trailed off helplessly as he dragged a hand down his face, looking away from John again, who was shaking his head.

“Paul, please…I never meant to…to make it seem like it was anything else, I swear. But god, believe me, I want you now, I do.”

Paul somehow seemed even more upset by that. “No, you don’t, John. Not really. You want Stuart, but you can’t have him. And I don’t want…I don’t want to be someone’s consolation prize, or a pity fuck. All right?”

Over the bafflement and shock that had washed over him, it was only now that John felt a pinprick of irritation. “Is that really all you think you are to me? God, when all this was said and done, I didn’t want to say goodbye. I still don’t.”

“I…I don’t either,” Paul admitted. “I had hoped we could still be friends going forward. But John, I just…I didn’t want _only_ that then. And I was clueless enough to think maybe you were starting to feel the same way too.”

He was staring at him with such agony that John couldn’t tell if his heart was sinking or floating—was he happy? Upset? Definitely that, yes, but for what reason…

“You…you knew all along how I felt about Stuart. How it hadn’t changed.” _Hadn’t it?_ He hadn’t even checked his phone in ages now to see if he’d ever texted him back. Once, he wouldn’t have let the phone out of his hand.

“Yeah, I know. And I wonder if you’ll ever be able to let him go.”

It looked like he regretted saying it as John’s jaw about dropped, the defensive hackles automatically on the raise. “Oh, so sorry—it wasn’t like I loved him more than anyone else once, or like I still want him to be happy.”

“You want him to be happy only with you. Pardon me for saying so, but that’s a hell of a big difference.”

Blood pounding in his ears, John stared over at him like he’d been smacked instead. “That’s a bit rich coming from you, isn’t it? What, because I don’t feel the same way about you we can’t even be mates at all? You were gonna let that go if you couldn’t have it all?”

Color flared in Paul’s cheeks, but he held his ground. “You’re twisting my words. I never said that. If…if you and Stu got back together, I would have been glad for you. If this mental scheme of yours had actually worked, I could have been happy. Now I’m not so sure.”

He was going for the closet, taking his coat out from it, and John moved as if to block him for a moment—he stopped at the last second. “Where the hell are you going?”

“I need to just—I need to go take a walk or something. Clear my mind.”

“Well, go and clear it then,” John said venomously, pacing away from him and giving Paul a clear path back to the door. “I’m not stopping you.”

Just before he reached for the handle, Paul stopped, then turned around to look at him again. “Just so you know—it all might have been fake, but how much I liked being with you wasn’t. Nothing can change that for me.”

John couldn’t even begin to splutter out a response before Paul had already left, the door closing firmly behind him. For one wild moment, he started after him, perhaps to follow him down the corridor, stop him, make him see—make him see what? That he truly mattered to him, no matter what their relationship looked like? That he had loved all their time together too?

None of it would come out right. He sat down on the bed instead, bowing his head as his fingers fisted in his hair. No one could say he wasn’t particularly accomplished at somehow fucking up all the good things in his life—or at losing people. And the hurt was already starting to seep in.

It was also impossible not to replay their conversation in his mind and feel a nag like maybe Paul had been right. He couldn’t well admit that now, but it hung over him like a thick fog. Was he only hanging on to Stu out of some kind of habit?

His ex had texted him again, in the time since he’d last checked his phone. The message didn’t bring him any joy…he didn’t even read it as he opened his phone, searching for Paul’s number. Should he call him? What could he even say?

_Please come back. Let’s talk. I’ll listen this time._

But he stared at the now-darkened screen instead, making no move and going nowhere at all—as perhaps he’d really been all along.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope everyone had a great holiday season! we're winding down to the end here, so i hope you all enjoy the penultimate chapter. oh, where things i'm going now...i'm excited to see ;)

When all was said and done, the actual designing portion of George’s job was only going to take him the bulk of the morning—not a particularly long task by anyone’s standards. He had all the plants and other supplies that he needed, the designs to follow along with, and there was simply no more reason to keep things waiting any more. Klaus had hired him to do a job, and now he could complete it in a matter of a few hours.

It wasn’t anything he hadn’t done before. But somehow, as he loaded up with the van with everything he would need, he found himself dragging his feet just a little bit.

The gallery hadn’t opened to the public yet by the time George got there, as Klaus had told him would be the case. The owner himself had to let George in, carrying one large box already to get started for the day.

“Good morning, George.” Unlike in previous encounters, Klaus wasn’t dressed extremely smart, but in a faded old jumper and worn jeans that looked like they had seen better days. Looking at them closer revealed they were stained here and there with colorful paint spatters from time long ago, and this was somehow noteworthy. Even dressed on the slobbier side, he still managed to look good.

“…morning. I’ll just bring everything inside then, yeah?”

“Right, of course. Let me help you.”

They unloaded all the boxes from the back of the van and set them up in the lobby for the first phase of the job. There was already a ladder ready to go for the higher to reach places, and as George began to settle in to get to work, Klaus hovered nearby for a moment.

“Is there…anything else I can get you?”

George looked up at him and flashed him a brief smile. “I think I’m all right. It’ll be a couple hours out here.”

“That’s all right. You can just, uh…take your time. I’ll be around if you need anything.”

Klaus wasn’t just confined to his office the whole time either. As George set about unloading the plants and arranging them in the front lobby, corridors, and gallery rooms, Klaus was busy too with switching some of the paintings around and occasionally poking his head in to check on George’s own progress.

 As he often did while he worked on something, George had his phone out to let music play and keep him company. He was high up on the ladder, moving a trailing rope of ivy around and blaring his music when Klaus’ voice came from just below him.

“Electric Light Orchestra?”

George looked down at his smiling face, and he had to return it. “Er, yeah. Sorry, if it’s too loud I can turn it off.”

“No, no…I like it. Sometimes I get tired of all the boring classical music we play around here.” His smile was wryer at that, almost impish, and George gave a mock roll of his eyes.

“I didn’t say there was anything _wrong_ with it, you know, honestly—”

As he talked, he made to move back down the ladder—only somewhere in the process, he lost his footing. It wasn’t a long fall and he managed to mostly catch himself instead of crashing straight to the floor, but he still slipped all the same…and Klaus moved forward instinctively to catch him, to steady him instead of letting him trip over any more rungs.

For a few bewildered, heart-pounding moments, George was practically in his arms, steadied there instead of falling any more, and he thought about simply remaining there for a while—before a hesitant, nervous laugh finally left them both and they quickly separated.

“Thanks for coming to the rescue,” George teased, heat rising in his cheeks, and Klaus returned the look.

“Just be careful—I might not be around to save you next time.”

Even after the incident, it was a nice way to spend the morning, going about his work and chatting with Klaus whenever they crossed paths. He found himself taking his time, maybe even going a little slower than he normally would, all in the interest of prolonging things—but finally, he’d emptied every container out, and his task here was done.

George paused, looked around him…and then went to go fetch the client in question here. “C’mon and see the place. I think you’re going to like it.”

He almost wanted to tell him to cover his eyes and open then, to truly be surprised, but he held back the childish urge as they stepped inside the main lobby—and Klaus’ tiny inhale really said it all. What had once been all grey and white, very minimalist and sleek, was now adorned with bright bursts of colors. Creeping ivy trailed from the ceiling, flowers were pinned in artful designs like painting themselves to the walls, and real water lilies floated in the small fountain just inside the doors.

As Klaus had wanted from the beginning, the additions made the whole place look more vibrant somehow, more alive. And after a moment of stunned silence, the wide beam Klaus fixed him with spoke volumes. “George, this is _wonderful._ It looks even better than I imagined.”

“Well…there’s plenty more where this came from.”

He hadn’t stopped in just the lobby. The same kind of touch was applied to other rooms throughout the gallery, but not enough to overshadow the actual artwork there—more so to accent it, compliment it all somehow. Klaus had seen parts of it being assembled, but not the whole effect all at once, and the smile never once left his face.

“George…I almost don’t know what to say. You have a gift.”

“That says plenty,” George assured him, and for a heartbeat, they exchanged one lingering glance—and he was the first to look away. “I guess I’d better…get the van packed back up now. And such. Wouldn’t want to keep you any longer.”

“No, I…of course.”

When he had completed the cleanup, George headed down the corridor again and into Klaus’ office. The man in question seemed to have been pacing around before George came back in, and nearly jolted at the sight of him again. “Oh, just a minute…I’ve got the check right here.”

He retrieved it from his desk and handed the check over to George, who tucked it securely away inside the rucksack slung over his shoulder. It seemed almost strange now, to be collecting money from him when he’d enjoyed both the project and his company so much—but then, he’d been hired to do a job.

“I’m really glad you like it,” He told Klaus, and he meant it sincerely. “’Course, I’ll have to come round some times and make sure everything still looks OK—plants’ll need to be replaced and all.”

“Absolutely. Just let me know. I truly can’t…thank you enough. It looks like what I’ve dreamed of.”

“Oh, you know that’s me…making dreams come true and all,” George deadpanned, hoping to elicit another one of those smiles, but Klaus seemed almost troubled.

“Well, I…I guess I’d better get going, then. You’ll be opening the doors here soon enough.” He changed the subject instead, and after a moment, offered his hand for one more parting shake. “I’ll be seeing you.”

“Yes, of course. You will.” Klaus reached out and shook his hand, but neither of them let go right away—or at the point that was custom at all. George looked into his blue eyes and something like his heart seemed to flip just enough…but finally, they broke the connection, and he turned to leave with an odd feeling almost like disappointment welling up in him.

“George?”

At the sound of his voice, George turned around almost embarrassingly fast. “Yeah?”

Hovering by his desk, Klaus paused a moment and then carried on. “I’m hoping that…it doesn’t have to be all business between us now. I hope we can talk still, and maybe…be friends.”

It was just what he had wanted to hear, but also somehow not—still, it was better than nothing, and he nodded. “I sort of thought we were getting to that point—friends, I mean. I’d like that too.”

Klaus’ expression shifted into notable relief. “Oh, good…I’ll text you some time. See you later.”

“See you.”

But something about it had felt so forced, not like everything else that had been building between them thus far. For the second time, George went for the door, and he made it through this time as he walked slowly down the corridor, mind starting to race again. Every step he walked away felt wrong, like he was missing something, and he came to a pause. He couldn’t leave without saying something else. Just what, he wasn’t quite sure yet, but he had to do _something._

George whirled around and headed for the semi-closed office door, only to have it swing open as Klaus made to come striding out into the corridor after him. They both froze, narrowly avoiding a collision, but they were pressed awfully close to each other—and there was only one moment of taking in each other’s wilder gazes and parted lips before the gap closed completely.

Klaus kissed him, and nothing in so very, very long had ever felt more right to George. There was a certain time of early morning when one could watch the tightly-folded flower buds slowly open once more to the rays of the sun, and that was how this felt—like he had been scrunched up before, and was just now unfurling to reach for something brighter.

His hands moved to curl in Klaus’ collar, to keep him anchored to him, as the other pair of hands were fisting in his own hair. What had perhaps started out as something slow didn’t stay that way for long, until they both had to part for air, and a ragged laugh left Klaus.

“What the hell are we doing?”

“I know what I’m doing,” George insisted, so close he could nearly count all the faded freckles on his face. “I only…just ten minutes, really—”

“Oh, stop.” And Klaus was pulling him in for another kiss again, this time, walking backwards and leading the two of them into his office, where he kicked the door shut. George’s rucksack slid to the floor, along with his jacket, and long, slender fingers were already sliding up and under his shirt.

When they parted again, George’s mouth chased Klaus’ for a moment, until he brought his hands up to carefully frame his face, like he might delicately handle some kind of sculpture he was working on, his thumb tracing over a cheekbone. “George, I want…I need to know if you’re sure about this.”

“Do I look like I’m not?” George asked, nearly bristling with want and in no mood to talk much longer—he pulled him in for another kiss, fingers buried in his hair before they came down to tug on his shirt. He really _was_ still wearing too much clothing, and as good as those old jeans did look on him, they were currently very much in the way.

The desk was the only real option they had here, once a lot of the objects on it had been swept off and onto the floor. By the time they settled down, the place was a mess, and George felt like one too—but a blissful, contented mess. His fingers ghosted over his lips and then he grinned, dropping his chin down onto Klaus’ shoulder next to him as his breathing sought to regulate itself once more.

Klaus was in the same sort of state, but he still reached out and smoothed George’s hair for a moment, leaning forward to kiss his face, his nose, down by the juncture where his neck met his shoulder then.

“Ten minutes isn’t sex,” He muttered loud enough for George to hear. “Ten minutes isn’t even enough time to make a meal.”

The words echoed in George’s memory, tugging at him even through the fog he still felt in—hadn’t he once told John something close to the same thing, not that long ago? A surprised little laugh must have left him, and Klaus looked curiously at him.

“What?”

“I’ll tell you in a bit. Come back up here for a minute, would you?”

But it didn’t last long—it couldn’t, not when they remembered where they were, what time it was, and what they had just been doing. Klaus swore in German and staggered up to his feet, and the two of them set about putting both each other and the office right once again. They were in the middle of the process when a sharp rap came at the door outside.

“Klaus?” It was Astrid’s voice, and the two of them froze. “Are you in here?”

“Just…just a minute, Astrid! I’m finishing something up.” His gaze met George’s, and something about the whole thing seemed very funny as they both stifled laughter.

“I’d say you did that already,” George quipped, and Klaus lobbed a pen at him. He pulled his shirt back on then, emerging tousled-haired, and an affectionate tug went through George as he moved over to him again.

“You look fine. Do we have a cover story?”

“The cover story…is that we didn’t shag in my office.”

“I can work with that.” But he stole one last quick kiss, and there could be no missing the high color still in Klaus’ cheeks.

When they opened the door, Astrid looked surprised to see him. “Oh…hello, George. You must have been finishing up with the flowers, then—they look absolutely beautiful.”

“Thank you,” George told her. “It was a good project too…very rewarding, you know. But I’ve got to be on my way now.”

“Of course. Take care.”

He took one last look at Klaus, then made his exit—this time, for good. But this time, it was hard not to feel some kind of genuine spring in his step, like he was walking on air suddenly, and dammit…he was actually whistling by the time he climbed into the van.

Of course, he couldn’t say where things were going now. A quick fuck in someone’s office did not a relationship make. But that combined with the time he’d so much enjoyed spending with him thus far, all the conversations they’d had and the hours he had wished could be longer…well, all of that pointed to something, didn’t it? And Klaus had touched him so reverently, so purposefully—

His phone buzzed with a message, and George couldn’t help but peer down at it. It was from Klaus, and all he had sent was a single heart symbol. The sight of it made his own nearly do a summersault, and he laughed to himself as he started the engine up.

He had to get it together. But that seemed impossible when the only thing he seemed to be feeling was one giant exclamation point, bright red and in bold type.

***

To say that the train journey back to London was tense would have been a generous understatement.

John had barely slept the night previously, nor had he heard Paul return back to the hotel room from his time walking around. The morning after had been smothered with an uncomfortable, awful silence that he tried to break once or twice with generic enough questions, but Paul had remained pointedly silent. The breakfast they ate with Paul’s family then was mercifully buffered by the rest of the chatty, happy lot, all very preoccupied with the newly married couple and so hardly paying any mind to John’s moping.

He still felt the agony, deep in his heart. He did his best to force a smile when he said goodbye to all of Paul’s family, many of whom expressed interest in seeing him again. Angie gave him a parting kiss on the cheek, which Paul fortunately missed as he was embracing his little brother one more time.

“Look out for Paul then,” Mike gave John a cheeky sort of grin before they parted ways. “I reckon you deserve some kind of medal for putting up with his shite.”

“Yeah, uh…maybe so.” But Mike had it all wrong—it was Paul who had put up with crap all along, and now, it had finally come to blow up in John’s face.

Paul seemed determined to maintain his stony silence all the way back home, and John was stubborn enough to think two could play at that game…but after about an hour, it soon became unbearable. Lowering his voice to a hiss, John leaned over to address Paul, who had his earphones in.

“Hey. If I told you I was sorry, would that make it any better?”

Paul looked at him like he was mad. “Oh, John…maybe if you actually meant it, yeah.”

John frowned at that. “Of course I’d actually mean it! I mean I…I _do_ mean it.”

“Oh, good. I feel a lot better now.”

“Don’t start that shite, I know I was a bloody idiot—”

The woman sitting just in front of them turned around and made a shushing sound, fixing John with a beady glare—he’d accidentally been raising his voice all the while. Chastised, John slumped in his seat and tapped his fingers on the arm rest for a moment before leaning over to speak to Paul again.

“So what are we going to do when we get back home? Go our separate ways, act like it never fucking happened?”

“Well…that was sort of my plan, yeah. We’ve outlived our usefulness to each other now.”

“Oh, bugger the ‘usefulness’—isn’t there more than that?”

“Was there?” Paul looked almost sad now, glancing away from John and looking out the window instead. “I told you—I was a right idiot to believe that myself. Yeah, I think maybe we just ought to go our own ways for now.”

This was hardly the answer John wanted to hear, and the hurt stung him like an angry wasp. _“Fine_ then—if you insist.”

They sat in an awkward, fuming silence for most of the journey back. Every time John thought of something new to say, it seemed to be the wrong thing once again, and he forced himself to hold his tongue. He was distantly aware that this could be the last time he saw him for quite a while, which inspired a kind of panic he still couldn’t articulate until the train finally came to a stop, and they walked out into the station together.

“I guess…well, this is goodbye then,” Paul said slowly, though he was bold enough to make eye contact with John—whose inevitable panic and kind of pain was rising up in a near chokehold around him, enough so that he finally had to blurt out the truth.

“I don’t _want_ it to be.”

Paul’s smile was sad, heartbreakingly so. “I think it has to be for right now. You understand that, don’t you? I think it has to be.”

John weakly shook his head, but Paul seemed like his mind was made up. “Thanks again for, uh…the help. That was certainly a bit of a ride, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, it…it was. I guess I really ought to be thanking _you_ since…well, I’m the one who got you into this.”

“I know. I still don’t regret that you did.”

The words were simple, but full of enough meaning that they all but pierced John’s heart—and then Paul’s next gesture did so even more. He leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, one that lingered for a moment before he pulled away.

“I’ll see you around, John.”

And before he could find the right words, Paul had turned and disappeared into the crowd shuffling off the platform, aiming to walk out of the station…and presumably, out of John’s life too. He could only stand there for a long moment before he angrily scuffed at the ground with his boot.

_“Dammit!”_

Morosely, he dragged his feet towards home, that uncomfortable feeling never leaving him once. He still had Paul’s number, he reminded himself, he could text or call when he wanted and try to put things right again…but how? Their entire relationship had been based on a sham, a lie. Where could you pick that up again?

His flat was dark when he unlocked the door and swung it open, but he was soon greeted by a meow and scurrying feet as Pepper came running over to greet him. John set his bags down before scooping up the white cat, who began purring in earnest as he scratched his ears.

“Hey, mate—I missed you too. Tell me those two knobs from next door didn’t forget to feed you.”

The two knobs from next door were having a row—John could hear the raised voices as he unpacked his things. He heaved a small sigh, hoping they weren’t planning to carry on all night, as tomorrow he had to go back to work and was in absolutely no mood to suffer just before it.

All the while, he kept hopefully checking his phone for a new message, but it remained stubbornly blank. Was Paul back at his own flat and thinking of him too? Or was he already so determined to put the whole thing behind him, he wouldn’t even spare a thought?

About an hour later as John was lying in a stupor on the couch, there came a knock at the door, and he had to scramble up to his feet. There was no chance at all that it was Paul, Paul who had changed his mind and who wanted to talk, but _maybe…_

Looking through the peephole quashed what little hope had dared to bloom, but John still opened the door all the same. “’Lo, Mick.”

“Hey, John.” Mick hardly looked like his usual upbeat self, shoulders slumped and eyes still rimmed with pink. “I just…thought I’d give you your key back. Pepper was good for us.”

He held out the spare key John had given him in order to take care of his cat, then turned to go away—again, not like ordinarily, when he’d find some way to stay and talk John’s ear off. Despite his own misery still brewing around him, the sight of this was still disconcerting to him.

“Thanks for looking after him.”

“Yeah, I…I hope you had a nice time away.”

Well, wasn’t that just the cherry on top—apparently, neither one of them had had a good weekend. John watched him go for a moment before he shut the door, rubbing at his temples. He couldn’t afford to feel bad for Mick now when he was already dealing with enough negative emotions, and especially after he’d done Paul so wrong.

He would get in touch with him later in the week, he resolved by the time he got into bed. He’d give him one day to cool off, to get back to work himself and think things over, and then John would message him again. Paul hadn’t wanted things to end any more than he had, and surely, they could figure something out.

By the time Friday came around, he still hadn’t heard from Paul at all.

He’d sent a couple messages his way, and tried calling him once—the urge to do more was strong, but he tried to remember his lessons from earlier when he’d lost Stuart. Blowing someone’s phone up, however desperately you wanted to talk to them, was hardly an effective way to get anyone to talk to you.

John determined that he could wait—he could. He kept himself occupied enough at work, but Cynthia was busy with her studies and he had hardly even seen her at all that week. It made him realize just how often he’d vented his prior troubles to her, and how strange it was to not have another ear present to listen.

But by the weekend when he’d still heard nothing out of Paul, he needed to talk to _someone…_ or two someones, rather, and so invited both George and Ringo over for food and for the scoop.

“Your texts have been sounding…depressed ever since you got back,” Ringo said carefully as he helped himself to some crisps John had set out on the coffee table. “Did something go wrong? Did Paul’s family totally hate you?”

“No, uh…just the opposite.” John flopped down in a chair nearby, folding his hands under his chin. “But it’s been bloody awful. Paul and I…I think we’re really done.”

George, curled up on the other side of the couch, looked up from his phone. “You mean like…done-done? Wasn’t that sort of the point anyway?”

“I dunno! I mean…I guess, yeah, it was,” John groaned. “But I still wanted to be _friends_ when it was all over, at least, I didn’t want to like never talk to him again, but now it’s all gone to hell.”

He thought he didn’t do the best job of explaining—it was hard to convey just what Paul meant to him, not quite a friend but not quite something more, or how much he’d really grown to like him…he could only offer a scrambled, half-arsed version of events as they had transpired over the weekend. By the end of it, Ringo’s jaw was nearly on the floor.

“Oh, hell, it went and backfired! He wasn’t supposed to actually _fall_ for you or any of that shite.”

“Exactly!” John pointed a triumphant finger his friend’s way. “I mean, that’s exactly the point. It was all  _fake_ the whole time, he knew that like I did, so to expect anything else…it’s just mad, isn’t it?”

“You just got your wires crossed somewhere, is all,” Ringo said wisely, sounding uncannily like his mum when she was about to share some homespun advice. “He thought you were interested but he’s got it wrong—I just hope you explained that like…decently.”

“Er…maybe not? It was all happening so fast, you know, I think I came off a bit of a prick—”

“A bit?” For the first time since John had finished recounting his story, George spoke up with an incredulous scoff. “I’m not gonna pretend like I’m the most tactful person ever, but honestly, John.”

“Well, I wasn’t aiming for that! Paul knew this whole time I was trying to get Stuart back—that’s it. I never lied about…feeling anything else for him.”

“This is why this plan was insane from the beginning,” George said in that maddeningly self-righteous tone he got sometimes. “Honestly, did you really think it’d be like signing a business contract and you could both walk away from it with no harm done? Not when it’s a mess like this.”

John’s jaw about dropped. “Oh, listen to _you_ over there, all high and mighty! Pardon me for not taking relationship advice from someone who can’t figure out where the hell he stands with his ex from like, five years ago.”

Ringo gave something of a snort at that. “I’d say he’s got _that_ pretty well put to bed by now, honestly.”

George reached over to elbow Ringo sharply at that, a gesture that John caught—and a pained, billowing kind of silence hung in the air for a moment as he and George made quick eye contact. He got the sense something had happened that he didn’t know about, that he was perhaps not supposed to be included in at all, and his eyes narrowed as he spoke up slowly.

“…and what’s that supposed to mean, exactly? Did something happen with Pattie recently?”

“It’s none of your business,” George said curtly, and John’s eyes flew open once more at that.

“None of my—seriously? We’re friends, we tell each other everything! That’s why we’re here now! What’s going on?”

George’s jaw was still stubbornly set for a moment as he looked over at him, but then he heaved a sigh and shook his head. “Oh, what the hell…I’m not ashamed of it. And it’s nothing I need to hide at all. I’ve been…well, I guess I’m sort of seeing someone new.”

“But that’s great news! Honestly, it…well, who is it?” And the fact that he hadn’t been told already was causing a nagging suspicion that he wasn’t going to like the answer.

“Klaus. From the art gallery? We, er…we sort of hooked up last weekend. And I’ve seen him a couple times since then, so I don’t think it was just a one-time thing.”

But it felt more like he’d been hit round the face to John, a blow he hadn’t seen coming at all. “Klaus _Voormann?_ You mean…Astrid’s ex? That Klaus?”

George nodded once, almost defiantly, and Ringo, physically positioned in the middle between them, slowly looked over from one to the other.

“But…you can’t _do_ that!” John protested in a hurt, confused splutter. “You can’t go out with the ex of my ex’s girlfriend! It’s twisted, mate!”

“Oh, _please,_ don’t even act like that,” George retorted angrily. “It’s not like I fucked Stu, for god’s sake—”

“You _fucked_ him?” John was on his feet now, unable to help but pace at the sudden disturbing development, and George threw his hands up.

“Yeah, actually—we shagged in his office, if you really must know.”

It was Ringo’s turn to gawk at him now. “You left that bit out when you told me! Christ, George—”

“Yeah, and you didn’t say a damn word to me at all, which means you felt it was something to hide,” John fumed over at George, who also got to his feet now.

“Only because I knew you’d react like _this,_ John! Jesus, not everything everybody does is some secret move to try and morally offend you. I really like Klaus, I like him a lot, so I went with what I was feeling—something maybe you ought to have learned.”

John froze up at that, staring over at him. “And what the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?”

George lifted his chin. “Only I know you like this Paul bloke—god, you haven’t stopped talking about him for weeks now. Your idea was stupid, yeah, but then things clearly happened between you two and you…you shot it in the foot, and for what? For the off chance that Stu might want you back? You’ve got to let that go, John.”

“He has a point,” Ringo said mulishly, and John threw him a blistering look.

“Whose side are you on here?”

“There aren’t any sides, John! The both of us…we just want what’s best for you.”

“And you thinking just forgetting about Stu is going to do the trick?”

“I think it would, if you would let it happen...and if you weren’t so fucking in love with being miserable,” George said.

“I am _not—”_

“Aren’t you? Because I have a hard time believing why you wouldn’t take a chance with Paul if you weren’t.”

 “Look, you…you’ve got no clue what you’re talking about, all right? Me and Paul, or me and Stu…I know what I want.”

“Do you really?” And now, something on George’s face looked almost sad. “I hope that you do. But I can’t sit around here and listen to this right now when you aren’t willing to yourself.”

He was going for his coat, and John wanted to swear at him, say something cutting—but it still felt like his head was spinning too much to come up with anything good. “Yeah, well…maybe you’re right then. Go worry about your own relationship and I’ll worry about mine.”

The door slammed shut behind George, and John whirled on the visibly shocked Ringo. “Got anything else you’d like to say too?”

Ringo swallowed once before standing up, and his almost-constantly somber-looking face seemed even more so now. “Just…think about what you really want, John. I understand being sad over how things ended with Stu. But you can’t let that get in the way of anything else—I don’t mean just with Paul, but. Everything. Your whole damn life. And I wish…maybe we had tried to tell you all this sooner.”

John said nothing, incapable of doing anything but nearly babbling on the spot, until Ringo reached out and firmly clasped his shoulder. “Look. I don’t think it’s really me you need to talk to right now—and I don’t think it’s really George either, though maybe you ought to apologize. I’ll stick around if you want me to, but John…think about it.”

In the end, Ringo left shortly afterwards, leaving a very stupid-feeling John to stand alone in his flat. Pepper came slinking past on his way to the kitchen, but when John tried to pet him, all he got was a nip for his troubles before the cat stalked off.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re pissed off at me too,” John called crossly over at him, but Pepper didn’t offer any comment.

Over on the table, John’s phone lit up with a new message—he darted over to it, hoping to see Paul’s name, or maybe even George’s now. He just caught Stuart’s name on it before it faded to black, and quite suddenly, he was reminded of something. Just tomorrow, Saturday night, he’d earlier agreed to go out and get drinks with him. Right now, he really didn’t care.

He almost laughed aloud at that, dragging his hands down his face. He’d just spent time fighting over him, and now, he was hardly interested that Stuart had texted him at all.

John picked his phone up and curled up on the couch, for half a moment, debating on calling the whole thing off—but given how rattled he was after tonight, maybe it would be good to go and see Stu, after all. To be in his company again and see if that was what he was really after.

 _sounds good. see you at 7._ And he threw the phone aside then, bringing his arm over his eyes for a long while.

He simply didn’t have any answers anymore. Maybe tomorrow would provide some of them instead.

***

The Fox was a little pub John had never been to before, so he opted to dress a bit nicer than usual for the occasion. He would still distinctly sloppy next to the ever-sharp Stuart these days, but he didn’t agonize over that much. Stu knew what he looked like, for god’s sake.

The urge to text George had been nagging him all day—but then, he also knew his friend, and a quick little message was hardly going to cut it with him if he’d really upset him…and John knew that he had. Once again, he’d opened his mouth and crammed about the whole fucking foot in and was anguishing over it. Hardly a good trend to get into, especially since he was zero for two when it came to making amends with either party.

The interior of the pub was warmly-lit and cozy, reminding John of the place he’d visited with Paul on the night of his birthday. That seemed like so long ago—Christmas decorations were now appearing in shop windows and parks around town. Even the inside of the pub had fairy lights and bunting hung up to usher in the holiday.

He met Stuart over at the bar, who gave him a warm smile when he saw him and got up from his chair. “It’s good to see you again, John.”

 “You too.” It didn’t feel like a lie, exactly, but the meaning behind it was certainly different than it would have been a couple months ago. Maybe even a couple weeks ago.

“I’m glad we could meet like this,” Stuart carried on after they’d ordered their drinks. “Have you been keeping busy?”

“Yeah, uh…well enough.” Besides just the usual bit of working at the bookshop, he’d otherwise been fairly busy with one family engagement or another in his pretend relationship—and it felt like the time had flown by.

“So you were at another wedding last weekend? How did that go?”

“Oh, it was…fine. Paul’s family is all nice.” It hurt to mention Paul, he could only silently hope that Stuart wouldn’t carry on with the subject—but no such luck.

“I bet they are. And how’s Paul doing then?”

Well, he could certainly lie. He’d been doing that all along, hadn’t he? But maybe there was something about being here with the man who’d caused him to take up the absolutely mental experiment that threw him for a loop, that compelled him to tell some of the truth.

“He’s, uh…all right.”

It must have been obvious from his tone just what all he wasn’t saying, and Stuart looked like he wanted to ask more—but propriety held him off. They’d once been able to tell each other anything, but right now, John was grateful for that new space that existed.  

“Well, that’s…good. I’m not just saying this to be polite, John, honestly—but he really does seem like a good bloke. I’m happy you’ve found someone.”

Didn’t that just raise something of a lump in the throat. It took him a long moment to put his finger on why it felt so out of place before he realized—it wasn’t there because he missed Stuart. Hell, he’d been able to speak to him just now and hadn’t felt a twinge of anything, no pang in the heart, just…nothing but a slightly muted sense of comradery, sort of like seeing an old friend again.

No, the pain now was because he _had_ found someone. Who had he spent the whole week thinking of, and so much time before that? True, it had started out as something artificial, but you could fake a relationship—what you couldn’t fake were the feelings that grew out of it, and John may be prone to bungle matters of the heart, but he wasn’t that slow on the uptake either.

He wished it was Paul here with him instead, sharing a laugh or going over the finer points of a song they both loved. He wished it was Paul with those hazel eyes and long lashes, a smile never too far from his lips. And when he finally spoke again, it was with a shaky laugh, dragging his fingers through his hair.

“…god, I’ve been so _stupid.”_

Stuart blinked, obviously confused. “Pardon?”

“Nothing, I…I just thought of something from the other day,” John said quickly, trying to recover hastily. “I’m glad I…found someone too.”

The conversation evolved from there about work, their families, any old thing you might chat about it with an acquaintance—and not a bit of it felt forced. Nor did the quick hug they exchanged at the end, or the discussion of getting together another time with their friends and significant others.

“Take care of yourself, John,” Stuart told him with one last parting smile, and John clapped his shoulder like he would any other friend.

“You as well. Say hi to Astrid for me.”

He watched Stuart walk down the crowded pavement and an odd sort of feeling went with him—something like loss, maybe a bit like letting go. He couldn’t place it, but it was better than anything he’d felt about his ex in the months previous…and that was a good sign, wasn’t it?

All this time, he’d been hung up on Stuart to the point of not being able to see anything past that. Had he really thought he could win him back somehow? Even if he somehow could have, the curdling feeling in his stomach told him that he wouldn’t have wanted that anyhow. Not anymore.

He was just checking his phone again when a voice rang out from near the pub.

“…John, right? How’s it going?”

John looked around in time to see the tall, bespectacled figure of Ivan Vaughan, Paul’s fellow teacher. He was exiting the building too with a group of people, and he strode forward now to say hello to him.

“It’s, uh…going fine.” A sudden thought struck him then, and he ran with it before he could take it back. “I haven’t seen Paul since last weekend—I bet you’re all busy at school, right?”

“And how,” Ivan comically mimed wiping at his brow. “With final projects getting started and that Christmas program rehearsals, we’ve been up to our eyeballs in it. Take your boyfriend out for a drink soon or something, would you? He really seemed out of it this week especially.”

That hurt to hear, so much so that John nearly winced. “Yeah, I…I’ve gotten that sense too. I think I will then.”

Ivan seemed relieved to hear that. “Good. I expect I’ll be seeing you later, yeah?”

At first, John had no idea what he was talking about. “…right. I guess you will.”

“Fab. See you later!”

He went to rejoin his pack of friends, leaving John to slump his way over to the bus for home and spend what felt like forever just staring out the window. Confused to the point of being miserable, John got off the bus and dragged his feet back, pausing just outside his building when he saw another figure leaning against the fence outside. Closer inspection revealed that it was Keith, clad in a leather jacket despite the chill of the night, and grinding out a cigarette underneath his shoe.

“Hey, John.”

John looked from the ground and back up to him. “You got any more of those?”

Keith lobbed the whole, nearly-empty pack at him. “You can have the whole fucking thing if you want.”

It was the first cigarette John had had in years, since he’d kicked the habit some time ago, and he took a hit from it like it was laced with crack instead. The nicotine nearly burned going down his throat and he coughed wildly, the smoke burning his nose and his eyes in a way that was strangely welcome—at least it got him thinking less about his pained heart for a moment.

Keith eyed him with something like bafflement. “Er…are you OK?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s just…been years since I’ve had one. God, that’s disgusting,” John wheezed, eyes watering as he nevertheless brought the cig back to his lips to finish it off.

His neighbor paused, then asked him, “How hard…was quitting for you to do?”

“Honestly? It was fucking awful. I failed the first two times I tried. But I was sick of wasting the money and of giving myself cancer, and er…my boyfriend at the time really helped me out. He wanted me to quit, so I fought like hell for it.”

Keith was silent at that, gnawing on his bottom lip, before finally speaking up. “Well…sorry to lead you back into vice and sin then. I’m thinking this could be my own last pack too.”

“Mick wants you to quit, doesn’t he?” John recalled their earlier argument, and Keith’s skinny shoulders gave a shrug.

“Yeah, he does. I can only take so much hen-pecking, you know?”

“I thought Stu was doing that too. But here, I’ll let you in on a little secret…” John waved him forward a bit, the better to impress the knowledge unto him. “He was doing it because he cared about me.”

“Mick and I have been together for five years. I know that he cares.”

“Five years? Hell…that’s practically married these days.”

“Don’t bring that up around him either,” Keith said with a bit of a pained smile. “Mick’s strictly anti-marriage. Thinks it’s too old-fashioned.”

“Oh, god—forget I said anything then.” John had had enough of the cigarette—talking about Stuart didn’t make him feel sad, but it did make him remember how hard he’d worked to quit the habit. He ground his own cigarette out, nodding towards Keith. “Still, five years is a long time—whatever’s, er, causing you both to fight now…you can work it out, right?”

“I sure hope so,” Keith said quietly. “He drives me fucking mad, but I love the man, you know? I think I knew that the day I met him.”

“Oh, no…now you’re getting soft on me.”

“I know it sounds ridiculous, but it’s true. I think with some people you can just…tell, you know? And I could tell with him. So…” He took the pack of cigarettes back from John, weighed it in his hand for a moment, and then walked over to chuck it in the collection of bins on the pavement. “Here’s to trying.”

“Cheers. Here’s to trying.”

He thought about that as he headed into his flat, closing the door slowly behind him. It was still quiet next door, no fighting or anything else going on, and he wondered if Mick and Keith could work out whatever was giving them trouble—bizarrely, he found himself hoping so. Why not? There only ought to be one miserable bastard in the vicinity, thank you very much.

But what had Keith said? That with some people, you could just tell when it was right…and if you wanted to make it work, you found a way. That stuck out to him, and how stupid he’d been as well did too. How blind.

He started with just one first. Before he went to sleep, he sent George a text message.

_please give us a ring tomorrow. i reckon i owe you an apology._

He could hardly sit still the following morning waiting for the phone to ring, and when it did, he nearly pounced for it.

“Hello?”

“Oh, John…” It was George, sounding weary already. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone and made things even worse for yourself.”

“No! No, I…not yet, at any rate. I just…god, I just wanted to be apologize for being a complete arsehole the other night. You’re one of my best mates, you know that. If this Klaus makes you happy, then…I’m happy too. Honestly.”

A prolonged pause, then George gave something of a snicker. “You _were_ a complete arsehole the other night, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, I said that! C’mon, George, don’t keep dragging this out…don’t do that thing you always do…”

“Tell you what—I’ll shelve it temporarily, but I’m not done being cross with you yet. Fair?”

John sighed, rubbing his forehead. _“Fine._ But listen, I think I may need your help then, because…oh god, now I don’t want to say it—”

“Take your time. I’m listening.” But George’s voice was reaching smug levels, and John nearly squirmed in his seat as he forced himself to say the words.

“…you were right.”

“Sorry, actually, the connection’s a bit faulty—”

“You were right, OK! Bloody hell.”

There was a beat as George quietly spoke to someone nearby him on the other end, then back to John. “That’s big of you to admit. Klaus thinks so too.”

John nearly choked at that. “Is he _there—_ no, no, you know what. I don’t care. Screw who you want. But I’m hoping…I’m hoping you can rearrange being annoyed enough to help me with something. It’s about Paul.”

When George spoke again, his voice was distinctly softer. “’Course I can help. As long as you’re not going to try and fake-date someone else to make _Paul_ jealous now, are you?”

“No, no, no. We’re totally over that. But I think I’ve got another idea.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and now, the end is near...and god, but it's bittersweet for me. i published this fic back in september (after even longer just thinking about the idea), but that means it's been nearly five months since i started this. i am not the fastest at updates for a variety of reasons, and i often felt guilty about that--so i can't thank you as a reader enough for how patient you were with me, or how understanding. every kudo and comment left never went unappreciated, not once. it's hard, sometimes, to be a writer...we rely so much on feedback to know all of that work was worth it and that people like our stories, so from the bottom of my heart, thank you again to all of you.
> 
> i loved writing in this little universe, so i'm a bit sad to see it go. but who knows? those of you that follow me on tumblr may see me revisit it in prompts or oneshots, and if there's anything of substance, i'd be happy to leave all my work within this particular au grouped under its own 'series.' we'll see. but i leave it for now, and i hope you've enjoyed spending time in it as much as i did. bookshop owner john and flower shop manager george are dear to my heart!
> 
> and lastly, i hope you enjoy the ending of my fic. it's been wonderful writing it, and i also hope that maybe you'll look out for what i write next.  
> until next time,  
> jenn <3

It wasn’t so much that John had a solid, foolproof plan in mind—and look what his most recent scheme had led to anyway—but he certainly had something. In truth, it had been seeing Ivan at the pub again that had jogged his memory, reminded him of another conversation, and the rough outlines of an idea began to take shape in his head.

 He could vaguely remember just where Paul lived, so going to his flat and knocking on the door wasn’t a non-option yet, but something held him back from doing so. It felt too intrusive, somehow, definitely like he was barging in, but his friends weren’t overly won over by his argument against it yet for his other idea.

 “So…showing up at his place is being invasive, but this scheme of yours isn’t?” Ringo asked, plainly confused, and John sighed like he was tired of explaining things too much.

 “Yes! It’s a goddamn public event, I double-checked…there’s nothing wrong with me being there.”

 “…right,” Ringo said, somewhat doubtfully. “Well, if you insist—”

 “Oh, but I do.”

He had to speak to him, just once. If he only got one shot at it, he wanted to make it count.

 The month of November had absolutely soared past, and what had just been a hint of Christmastime in the air and in the shops was now out at full force as they moved into December. Trees decorated the pavement, twinkling lights hung from the lampposts, and it seemed he couldn’t step into even the grocery store without hearing music blaring above him.

 As usual, any Christmas gift list he had was small (and down one rather formally important figure this year), and Mimi was the top priority. The fact that he hadn’t already heard from her about working out holiday plans was somewhat suspicious, but John figured the various parties she went to with her bridge club were keeping her busy for now.

 If she was making plans to come and see him, though, John would need to put out an effort into actually decorating his flat. Such as it was, it seemed a tad depressing to put decorations up for just himself and the cat to look at. And also with the cat in mind, a tree seemed a bit ill-advised. Maybe he could find one of those little tabletop ones, only that seemed tragic somehow too.

 His neighbors were having no such reservations. John came back from the bookshop one evening to find the pair of them fighting with what appeared to be a real tree, attempting to stuff it through the doorway and into their flat while Jack helpfully scurried around Keith’s legs.

 “For fuck’s sake, Mick, I thought you measured everything earlier,” A very disgruntled-looking Keith, standing on the outside of the flat and hair a mussed, pine needle-sprinkled mess, exclaimed.

 “I did!” The defensive response came from inside, muffled by the tree lodged in the doorway. “I just think this one in particular…it’s a bit too full, isn’t it?”

 “You’re a right genius, you are. I would have been just fine with a fake one too—”

 “We’ve had a fake one every bloody year before now, Keith! Live a little!”

 Jack, who had either been with them or had managed to break loose from the flat in all the kerfuffle, spotted John and came racing right over to him. He gave him a pat, then looked up towards the dog’s owner.

 “Sorry, John…we’re a bit hopeless right now.”

 “Is that John you’re talking to?” Mick demanded from inside. “Have him help.”

 Keith looked warily over at John, who just groaned. “Oh, all right—not like I had any plans anyway.”

 With the two of them combined, they managed to squeeze the tree through the narrow doorway and into the more spacious kitchen area. Mick gave an excited clap of his hands, apparently happy with the proceedings.

 “Brilliant! Now it’s just a simple matter of hauling it into the living room—”

 John caught Keith’s eye, the both of them slightly out of breath, and they almost laughed. “Thanks, John.”

 “Yeah, uh…don’t mention it. Not to take Mick’s side too much here, but I think the real trees are nicer too.”

 “What did I tell you?” Mick, squeezing his way around the tree, triumphantly asked Keith, who rolled his eyes.

 But he couldn’t have been too cross—John quickly saw himself out when Mick, who had been taking his jacket off, saw it necessary to playfully loop his scarf around his boyfriend and use it to pull him closer for a contrite sort of kiss, brushing the loose needles from his hair. Whatever they’d been fighting about earlier, they must have made amends.

Hopefully, that kind of good fortune would rub off on him too. He hadn’t even started to get settled in for the night when Mimi gave him a call, and sure enough, she wanted to make holiday plans.

“Mater hasn’t seen fit to tell me what she’s got planned yet, but she might want to host again this year. You wouldn’t be opposed to coming up here for Christmas, would you?”

“No, not at all.”

There was a rather forced beat, and then Mimi said, in a very laborious sort of tone like she’d been practicing the words all day, “Of course…if you wanted to invite Paul along, he’d be very welcome to come too.”

“Don’t strain yourself, Meems,” John advised her, though he almost had to smile. “It’s very noble of you to offer. But, uh…Paul might be busy with his own family. I’ll have to check.”

That was true enough, but he certainly couldn’t bring himself to tell the truth to his aunt. She’d have a thousand questions he couldn’t quite answer, and besides, he was still hoping there was time to turn things around—truly hoping, not the desperate kind of hopeless clinging he’d done after his breakup with Stu.

“Well…very well, then. And remember, John, even more importantly— _no_ gifts this year. Can we agree to that?”

For the past three years or so, Mimi had been swearing he promise not to get her anything, and John would always say that he wouldn’t—and each time, he’d buy her something anyway. She was every bit as bad as he was, so he had no idea why they tried to keep the little charade going, but it seemed wise to humor her.

“Of course, Mimi. No gifts.”

“And I mean it this time!”

“Right, right!”

But of course neither of them really meant it. And right now, he had something more pressing to focus on than any family Christmas plans.

Part of it required getting George involved, which he wasn’t incredibly keen to do yet, but it would help smooth over the rift he’d created between them—and he wanted to borrow something from him too. He stopped by the bookshop one afternoon was business was slow, but it turned out that he wasn’t alone.

“Oh, I—‘lo there. Hey, Klaus,” John greeted the second person into his shop, only having time to shoot George a quick look. They were both pink-cheeked from the cold outside, but neither of them seemed to be totally bothered by it, and they had to unclasp their hands in order for George to hoist the ukulele case up on the counter for John to see it.

“Here you go, as promised.”

“Thanks,” John said in relief. “I’ll get it back to you as soon as I can. But you know I need it for…practical purposes.”

“Serenading is always a good way to go…like you’re in one of those cheesy old movies,” George said, but his smile wasn’t unkind. “Who can resist? You know what you’re playing, right?”

“’Course I do. And the ukulele’s easy enough to get through.”

“Are you planning some kind of surprise?” Klaus asked, looking back and forth between the two of them, and John glanced over at George.

“I didn’t fill him in on all the details. Figured it wasn’t my story to tell.”

“And since when have you been able to resist having a good gossip?” John asked, but George trailed away to go sort through some of the new arrivals standing on their own separate bookshelf. A bemused-looking Klaus turned back towards John, who shifted from foot to foot behind the till.

“Uh…well, it’s for Paul, of course. I need to make amends for something.”

Luckily, Klaus seemed to think it wasn’t his place to inquire any further, something John was thankful for. “Of course. A gesture like that…I think anyone would like that. I hope it goes as planned for you.”

“…thank you. I do too.”

George had disappeared around another shelf, and after giving him a moment, John cleared his throat. “So, um…you and our George then, eh? You’re a brave man.”

Klaus’ smile considerably brightened at the change in topic. “I think I’m more of a lucky man now, truly.”

John might have responded with something snide, but he held himself back—what was the point? The bloke looked genuinely happy, and well, more power to him. It was odd to think that they had both started out in roughly the same position before this whole saga began, the ex-partners of a couple John had wasted so much time losing sleep over.

“Good on ya, mate. George is lucky too, you know.”

They seemed happy, John thought, when they finally exited the shop together. Certainly, George was smiling more than he had recently. He unlatched the little case and took out the ukulele, giving it a few experimental strums. He knew his way around a guitar, its smaller cousin was not that much different.

And hopefully, it would pay off. Was it a bit silly and cliché? Honestly, yes. But he meant the gesture from the very bottom of his heart, and Paul had to see that. He had to know.

***

Much of the complications lay in the first phase of John’s scheme—he wouldn’t be deterred if things didn’t go as planned here, but of course, he so very badly wanted them to. And at least, it would get matters off on the right foot. It was for this reason only, driven by the thought of finally getting to talk to Paul again, that saw him moving determinedly forward.

Naturally, Holden was something of a zoo by the time John got there. The stately building was decorated for the holiday too, on the inside and the out, a full-sized Christmas tree on display coming through the front doors. The main lobby was packed full of various parents and bored-looking older siblings, all of them dressed far smarter than he was and here to watch their children’s Christmas concert. It occurred to John how bizarre (at best) he must look then, as a single man who was distinctly underdressed, and he was just about to get cold feet and retreat outside when a tall figure cut its way through the crowd and over towards him.

 “Hello, John! Glad to see you made it.” Dressed in a bright red sweater vest and with his closely-cropped dark beard, Ivan looked more like he the modern, hipster version of Father Christmas himself, but John didn’t voice this aloud.

 “Hello, Ivan. Have you seen Paul yet?”

“Oh yeah, he’s in the back getting everything ready. C’mon, come and say hello!”

John hesitated, but—it would look rather strange if he turned down the offer to go see his supposed boyfriend, wouldn’t it? Better to just go along with it for now. Reluctantly, he shuffled along after Ivan, doing his best to try and mentally prepare himself. This wasn’t how he had intended things to happen, but he’d better roll with it all the same.

The corridor that led to the auditorium stage was packed with kids who looked to be about twelve or thirteen years old, dressed in their formal concert attire. Along with an older, bespectacled woman chatting to the students, Paul stood out above them all, naturally, and just seeing him again caused John’s heart to do a sort of agonized sputter like trying to start up an old car. For once, it felt like he was lost for words.

Paul didn’t seem him right away, on account of speaking to a boy who looked as if he was about to be sick. “Don’t worry, Danny, you practiced your solo so much—it’s going to sound great out there. You’ll be just fine.”

“Looks who’s here!” Ivan called over to his colleague jovially then, and John’s brief time of agony was over as he thought about throttling the man next to him for a moment, but it was too late for any of that, and Paul glanced over.

He froze at the sight of John, pausing about in mid-sentence. Luckily, Ivan’s attention had been diverted by more of the kids trying to speak to him, so he didn’t notice if anything seemed amiss. Paul seemed to collect himself, said something quickly to his student, and then waded over to see John with a high color rising in his cheeks.

 “John,” He spoke in a low, hurried voice. “What the hell are you doing here?”

 There were only a dozen or so answers that might have worked—but whatever responses John rehearsed before seemed to completely fall out the window. “I wanted to see you. I just…I wanted to see you. I have to talk to you.”

 Paul stared at him for a moment longer, then looked back over his shoulder at his young charges—between Ivan and the other teacher here, they seemed to have enough supervision. He gave a short nod, though he was quick to clarify, “You get two minutes. Understand that? Two.”

“Yeah, I…thanks, c’mon…” They ducked down an adjoining corridor that was much emptier, and Paul folded his arms as he leaned against the wall, body language clearly putting distance between the two of them.

“Why did you decide to show up _here,_ John?”

“Because I already knew it was going to happen,” John said weakly. “Honestly, though—d’you think I’d come somewhere like here for fun? Or without thinking it was worth it just to try and talk to you?”

Paul’s jaw was clenched, a muscle in it seemed to jump now. “All right, then. Talk.”

He didn’t hesitate—he didn’t have the time to. “Listen, I really wanted to do this _after_ the concert, but Ivan saw me, and—anyway. I need to apologize to you, properly. And talk somewhere that isn’t here.”

“You’ve done enough, John,” Paul said, and it was the weariness in his voice that hit John the most. “I don’t…I don’t need to talk about it anymore. I don’t think I want to either. Haven’t we said enough at this point?”

John’s heart sank low in his chest, but he couldn’t leave without saying what he had to. “I…I know that you feel that way. That’s why it’s taken me this long to try and really talk to you. I don’t want to push you into anything now, but I still need to tell you that, if…if you change your mind, I’ll be at the bookshop tomorrow from noon to two doing inventory. It’s closed otherwise, so nobody else will be there. It would…mean a lot to me if you stopped by. But if you don’t, I understand that too, and I’ll get out of your life for good. I just had to…try.”

Paul opened his mouth, but no words came out—unless John was much mistaken, there seemed to be a new kind of shine to his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “John, I…I don’t—”

“Oi, Paul!” Ivan poked his head around the corner, and the both of them jumped at the interruption. Ivan tapped at his watch, clearly urging them to hurry up. “We don’t have much time left—we’ve got to get ready. Tell John here it’ll have to wait.”

He nodded once, and Ivan disappeared again. Paul looked back towards John, something like quiet agony all over his face, and if this was going to be the last time he could speak to him like this, John was taking no chances.

“I’m sorry for how things happened—for what I did, for being a grade-A prick. If we can’t go forward from here, I just…I need you to know how happy I was being with you too. You’ve got to know that much, at least.”

Paul swallowed hard, by now, his position had changed, he was leaning forward a little more and John longed to close that distance and touch him, any part of him. Just to do something. It felt difficult to breathe all of a sudden, waiting on tenterhooks for a response, and when he finally got it, the wind was nearly knocked out of him.

“I have to go now, John. We’ve got to get ready for our concert. But thank you for…taking the time to say all this. I can’t tell you enough what it means to me.”

He was losing him again, and it was like something in John hit a panic button. “So, will…will you be there? I gotta…I just have to—”

“I’ll think about it,” Paul told him. “I know that’s not enough, but it’s the best I can do for now. I really have to go. You’re, uh…welcome to stay if you want. After all, it is—what was it? ‘The best Christmas pageant the world’s ever seen.’”

He was smiling, just a little, repeating what John had said what felt like ages ago when he first heard of his event. And now, the whole thing was unraveling in front of him. When Paul said goodbye, he tried to return it, but it seemed so final now, knowing what both had and hadn’t happened here. He could hardly do it, and he watched Paul walk away and back into the throng with a part of him near shutting down.

John had just watched him walk away for good, hadn’t he? There was no way Paul would come and see him tomorrow, not after the pathetic, desperate move he’d just made. Staying here hurt too much, and as quickly as he could, he began to make his way towards the exit, refusing to let himself look back once.

No one could say that he hadn’t tried. But when you fell so short of something like that and watched it crash in front of you, ‘trying’ certainly didn’t seem good enough.

His heart felt as heavy as his feet when he trudged off to the bookshop the next day. A definite snap was in the air, forcing him to bundle into a thicker coat and cram a cap on top of his head, shivering and miserable already by the top he unlocked the door. At least it was decently warm in here, and he could take a few uninterrupted hours to work, put some music on, and be productive.

It sounded pathetic even to his own self, but he had to console himself with something now. Unlike his flat, John had taken care to put some more festive decorations up around the shop, and he even decided to switch on the twinkling strands of Christmas lights that wound their way around the walls. It made things a little bit brighter.

When noon came and went, he found himself looking, rather stupidly, over to the door, as if expecting Paul to just appear there, ready to talk things over again. He hadn’t flat-out told him _no_ earlier, but nor had he seemed exactly eager to take him up on the offer, and so after a couple times where John caught himself glancing eagerly towards the door, he firmly tried to lecture himself to knock it off completely.

It didn’t matter, he told himself at 12:30, sitting in the back room where all the extra books were stored. Paul wasn’t coming, he had to get over it.

At 12:51, there was a knock on the door.

John about dropped the books he was stacking, moving quickly from out of the back room and into the main area of the shop, heart pounding frantically away as his palms suddenly felt sweaty. It couldn’t be him, it couldn’t be, yet who else would be stopping by the shop now when it was closed? There was no chance, but all the same…

He hastened forward and over to the shop door, and then very nearly had a heart attack. Through the glass door, he could see him after all, it was him, it was Paul, and the sudden urge to go flee and hide in the back room until he went away struck him then—but he couldn’t do that now, he just couldn’t when here was his chance, after all.

John still took a deep breath before he unlocked the door and swung it open, greeting Paul with a careful just genuine smile. “Come on in, I…I’m really glad you came by, Paul.”

“I wanted to,” Paul told him as he came inside, and he sounded like he was being sincere. The sight of him in a dark jacket and with his cheeks pink from the chill outside caused John’s pulse to pick up a bit, and he would have offered to take that coat and hang it up on the rack inside here, but it still seemed too forward yet.

“How did…yesterday go?”

“The concert?” Paul arched an eyebrow. “It went fine. The students and their parents seemed to like it, so…that’s the most important thing.”

“Yeah, uh…it is.”

Paul leaned against the counter where the till sat, maintaining a bit of distance again but not by an overwhelming amount from where John was standing. “But c’mon, John—I know you didn’t ask me over here just to talk about Holden’s Christmas concert. What…else is on your mind?”

“You,” John blurted out, and though he wasn’t sure how it would sound afterwards, he kept going with that. “You’ve been, for weeks now. I just…I just couldn’t let things go like how they did, you know? I couldn’t let it end that way after I fucked up so badly.”

Paul’s expression seemed to flicker at that, but he gave his head a little shake. “You apologized before, and I think that you mean it. You don’t…owe me anything else now. I think we could be OK with things going back to the way things were before, don’t you think?”

Stuart had said something similar, about their own old relationship—something about starting over. And just like then, there was nothing in that implication that John liked, only there was a key difference here. Back then, he had been stupidly clinging onto something he thought he had to have back, trying to go back to the way things used to be…now, he wanted to move towards a new future. A better one.

“I don’t…I don’t want to go back like that. If we could be friends moving forward, yeah, I’d love that, but Paul…I need you to know that I want so much more than that too. That night at the hotel, after Mike’s wedding—I was so stupid. Completely fucking stupid, and trying to hold onto something out of habit, I guess. I don’t know when to quit, sometimes.”

“No, I s’pose you don’t,” Paul said, but a brief smile had flickered on and off his face, and his tone bordered on the affectionate side.

He hadn’t stormed out yet, hadn’t said anything else to shoot him down—encouraged, John kept going. “You said that you…felt like it was real, then, what was going on between us. And to tell you the truth, so did I. It was like I forgot sometimes, that it was something ‘fake,’ and I…hang on. I’m going to get the words all wrong, let me just…try another way instead.”

It was no trick of the light this time—there was definitely something gleaming in Paul’s eyes, and he seemed to be at a loss for words. He watched as John moved behind the till, and when he reappeared, he was carrying the ukulele he’d borrowed from George. Maybe it was the part of him that had seen too many 80s movies, where something similar often transpired, but the idea had somehow made sense to him at the time of its conception.

Something of a startled laugh left Paul, a look of surprised amusement on his face. “What’s all this for?”

“Well…I dunno about you, but there’s a lot of moments I kept thinking about between me and you—a _lot_ of them—but there was one that really kept coming back to me, for some reason. And I thought…maybe you might remember it too.”

And after a few experimental strums, John then took a small breath and began to play, singing the melody along with it.

 _“Games, changes, and fears_  
_When will they go from here?_  
_When will they stop?_  
_I believe that fate has brought us here_  
_And we should be together, babe,_  
_But we're not…”_

When Paul first recognized the Macy Gray song, the one they’d listened to together on the train, he passed a hand over his face to hide what John hoped was a sincere smile blooming on his face. He was nodding along after a bit, letting his hand lower so John could see that _yes,_ he was smiling after all, and before the second chorus, he was beginning to sing along.

They finished the song together, voices joined in harmony as perhaps they were meant to be all along, and Paul’s response had heartened John to the point that when it was done, he could look at that smiling face and have the nerve to carry on.

“You gotta know that I mean it. And I could…I could go back to the way things were before, but not without knowing I tried first. That _we_ tried. I don’t know what my future’s going to look like, or what I’ll be doing, but I do know…I can see myself doing it all with you. Whatever this is that we have.”

Paul had moved closer to him all the while, and now, that distance between them was painfully near to being closed as his wide eyes studied John’s face beseechingly. “But…what about Stu and all that?”

“Oh, him,” John shrugged as he took the time to set the instrument back down on the counter. “Well, he’s a nice bloke, but to tell you the truth, I have to wonder a bit what I saw in him. That was…a good part of my life though, I can’t lie about that. But I don’t want Stu at all anymore, not when I think that maybe…there’s something _better_ there. You know?” He was quick to add a disclaimer though, saying hurriedly, “But of course, only if you wanted to try, I know I was right stupid about things—”

But he never got to finish the sentence, because suddenly, Paul had seized ahold of his shirt and pulled him towards him, bridging the gap between them and bringing him in for one long, heartfelt kiss. John made a small, surprised sound at first, before it turned into something that was far more eager instead, and let his fingers twine in his dark hair to hold him to him as long as he possibly could. He would be quite all right if he never let go at all.

When they finally broke apart, they were still close enough that Paul’s long lashes seemed to graze John’s face. “John, you bloody idiot…I sat around for _weeks_ and wondered if I was ever going to hear from you again.”

“Well, I…I tried, at first!” John tried to protest weakly. “But then you didn’t seem…like you were interested anymore, so I tried to let it go because god knows being clingy’s worked so well for me before—”

“I was upset for that first week or so,” Paul admitted. “But then I thought…I dunno, I _hoped_ maybe you’d call again. That maybe, if I was lucky, we could agree to be friends going forward. I wanted to…to know how you really felt.”

“This is how I really feel,” John insisted firmly, one hand moving so it was cupping Paul’s face just enough that he could run a thumb over his cheekbone. “Shit, Paul, I think I’m sort of in love with you—I want you to be with me. That’s all I really know right now.”

And Paul responded by kissing him again, which was all the confirmation John felt he needed then. Despite the fact that Paul was still wearing his coat, John couldn’t help but graze a hand down his back, and he arched into him just a little bit. “Then I know the same thing,” He murmured into John’s ear, and he answered him by pulling him towards him again, kissing any part of his face that he could reach.

Later on, he wouldn’t be able to remember which one of them had suggested it, but it was proposed that they leave the shop behind in favor of getting something warm to drink, and maybe then returning to John’s flat. It felt so good, so natural, for John to reach over and twine his fingers with Paul’s as they walked, and the squeeze he got in returned indicated that it was mutual.

And like they had never missed a beat, like the horrible, empty weeks before had scarcely happened at all, they fell right into easy conversation.

“What d’you mean you haven’t decorated your flat at all? Are you against Christmas or something?” Paul demanded as they left the café with drinks in tow, and John rolled his eyes.

“I’m anti-commercialization, which is all this holiday is… _and_ I’m lazy. You do the math.”

“But that’s awfully depressing, John,” Paul argued. “There’s got to be a little thing or two we can do with the place…”

It was the prospect of ‘we’ that cheered John considerably, and made him think that decorating couldn’t really be such a bad idea, after all.

They were walking down the pavement to the building where John lived when something finally threw him off—and that was Mick and Keith, who really did have the worse timing, heading in their direction with their dog along with them. Still, he was in a bright enough mood that even this couldn’t deter him completely, and he greeted Mick back when he said hello.

“John, you won’t believe—we’ve got some amazing news, you’d better sit the hell down for this one—”

But Paul, who had stooped to pet the dog, suddenly frowned…and looked from Jack up to the other three here. “…John? How come these guys have got Jack with them?”

Keith looked at Paul like he was plain mad. “How d’you mean? He’s our dog, isn’t he? Got him as a puppy.”

It felt like the pavement had bottomed out beneath John’s feet for a long moment as three pairs of confused gazes swiveled his way—and then he couldn’t help but laugh, completely amazed at his own self. “Oh…oh my god. Well, uh…there _might_ be another story here—”

And so by the time he and Paul finally walked into his flat, it was all out in the open. “What’s next, then?” Paul asked, pointing towards Pepper curled up in one of the kitchen chairs. “Is the cat even yours? Is the flat yours?”

“I’m hurt by these accusations,” John informed him, though he took his coat for him and hung it up. “Of course they’re both mine! It was only the damn dog I was ever lying about. Is that the only reason you were interested in me?”

“Do you want me to be honest?” Paul teased, and when John looked discouraged, he came up to him and looped his arms around him. “Of course it’s not. It never would have been. I guess I’m almost…flattered, really. You don’t even like dogs.”

“I like dogs just fine, they’re just not my favorite—” But John’s protest was cut off as Paul lightly laid his index finger against his lips.

“John, it’s OK. But stop talking now. Just kiss me, please.”

He was all too happy to oblige.

* * *

 

**Six Months Later**

Easily, without any question at all, John could have happily stayed curled up in bed for hours that morning. Already prone to taking lie-ins, it made a wonderful improvement to have a solid, warm body to wake up to nearly every day, someone who was more than happy to share kisses then or that slow, lazy kind of morning sex. Jesus, but he’d about forgotten just how good _that_ was.

And today would have been perfect to start off with that, the hint of the warm June day it was turning out to be already coming through the open window, but there wasn’t any time for lying about—and quite frankly, it _was_ Paul’s fault.

“Oh, stop your bitching,” Paul said as they departed the train. “At least it’s close. And they were nice enough to invite us, so…”

“Don’t even pretend like I don’t know how they got you here,” John sniffed. “Once you found out you could mind Jack for a little bit, there was no going back.”

“He’s a good dog!” Paul insisted. “And since you keep saying we can’t get one of our own, I’ve got to live vicariously through your neighbors.”

“I said we couldn’t get one _yet,”_ John reminded him. “Maybe when we move…you know. If we do.”

In the half a year since they’d been together, it was hard to say at just whose place they had spent more time together. They’d never made it officially ‘moving in together,’ but as one or the other kept leaving things over at one another’s flat all the time, it simply seemed easier to spend more time living together than apart…and John certainly wasn’t complaining. He liked when Paul was the first thing he woke up to in the morning and the last thing he saw at night.

And it meant being invited to things as an actual couple again. Today was a glorious summer day, they couldn’t have picked a better one for it, but John still felt compelled to remind Paul of something.

“D’you remember when Mike got married, when I said that the next wedding I went to had better be my own? What happened to that, I ask you?”

Paul pretended to wipe a tear from his cheek. “I feel for you, honestly, I do. Now, let’s go find our seats.”

The gardens were gorgeous enough on their own, white folding chairs set up for all the guests and nearby, a large marquee where the reception would be held afterwards. “We didn’t want for it to be big-budget, necessarily,” Keith had told John previously. “But it’s Mick, you know—so there’s got be some level of theatrics involved.”

A young man with sandy brown hair was holding onto Jack (sporting a white bow tie on his collar) when they came near the seats, and Paul immediately swept over to him to relieve him of his charge. Sitting nearby were Mick’s parents, the only two wearing formal or even somewhat nice clothes, and looking rather overwhelmed at the ‘barefoot hippie wedding’ approach that their son had taken.

Some of the people filing into the seats John recognized from parties over at his neighbors’ place, and he was just giving a little wave when his phone went off. John peered down at the screen, then turned to speak to Paul.

“George and Klaus are looking at another greenhouse today. This one’s up near Oxford, and I always fancied him more of a Cambridge man.”

“Is he getting any closer to settling on one, then?” Paul asked, and John gave a little sigh.

“I dunno. But it’s gonna be weird, isn’t it, not having him so close anymore? And since Ringo and Maureen have the little one on the way, there goes all of his free time…mad, isn’t it?”

“No…that’s just how life is. Doesn’t make the two mutually exclusive, though.”

John gently nudged him with his elbow. “’Least you’re here. I think I’ll be OK no matter what happens then.”

“Stop it, you. You’ll make me blush.” But he leaned forward to kiss him all the same.

And besides how when Keith and Mick walked down the aisle together their dog tried to lunge and hurry after them, forcing Paul to tackle him and wind up planting into the grass for his troubles, things couldn’t have gone smoother.

This reception, held outside under the shade of a decorated marquee, was far different from the other most recent two John had attended. There was no uncertainty here, no confusion or misery or flustered hearts, just a bunch of exceedingly happy people and a lot of drinks to go around—and he was more than fine with all of that. And he had Paul this time, for real, and that made all the difference in the world.

He was stepping off the dance floor to rustle up something to eat from one of the tables nearby when he was approached by one of the grooms, who had very tastefully chosen to wear an off-white suit tonight, the jacket of which was now lost.

“I can’t thank you enough for coming, John,” Mick told him, his speech already a little slurred as he held a champagne glass precariously in his one hand. “You know, Keith and I…we’ve really come to think of you as something of a friend. Paul too.”

“Er, that’s…that’s great. Me too. I guess.”

From up on stage where the live band was playing, there came a particularly ferocious guitar riff from Groom #2, who John had overheard practicing often in their own flat—it turned out that his own band was the only playing tonight, Keith having long since discarded his own jacket, shoes, and socks as well. He’d originally left the guitar behind to be with Mick for a while, but permission had since been granted, and he looked to be in his element up there now.

Mick followed John’s gaze and gave a lopsided sort of grin. “Can you believe…I didn’t even really _want_ to get married at first? But we’ve been together for so long, and you know…you know you sometimes just have to let things be. You’ve just gotta _go with it.”_

“I do know that,” John said, watching Mick nearly sway on the spot. “I’m really happy for you two, honestly. Are you…planning to go anywhere to celebrate?”

“We’re working on it…though Paul’s already told us you’d be happy to dog-sit if need be.”

“Oh, has he now?”

John found Paul chatting to a group of other guests, but he turned when John came back, gratefully accepting a drink from him. “God, is it just me…but do people who aren’t straight know how to throw better weddings? Don’t ever tell Mike this, but I think this is nicer than his was.”

“I would feel that goes without saying,” John responded. “And what’s all this I hear about dog-sitting for the newly-weds while they’re vacationing, eh?”

“Well…I only just figured…”

“You’re sneaky, you know that?” John drained his drink and set it aside on a table before he held out his arms. “But I love you. Come and dance with me.”

When dusk was finally falling, the two of them walked away from the marquee and over to the nearby pond to get away from the noise for a bit. The lights from the marquee danced across the water, the stillness of a lovely summer night broken by some other guests nearby laughing and staggering about before falling right into the pond itself.

“Charming,” Paul laughed before they settled down in the grass, fingers linked together. Paul leaned his head on John’s shoulder then, and he turned to press a kiss to the top of his head.

A year ago at this time, his relationship with Stuart had been coming off the rails. He had been miserable, bitter and alone. He had moved out of their flat and into a new one with some obnoxious neighbors whose wedding he was now attending. And most importantly, that weight around his heart had been lifted. Most importantly, he was the happiest he’d ever been.

“You’re quiet…something on your mind?” Paul finally asked softly after a short while, and John just gave a little shrug.

“I just want to remember this, being here right now. How damn near perfect it all was.”

John leaned against Paul and thought about what Mick had said to him earlier. What was meant to be was going to find a way, and you had to let it happen when it did.

Even if there were a couple bumps along the road.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading/commenting/you get the idea! you can also find me on tumblr at [glimmerkeith](http://glimmerkeith.tumblr.com).


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